*   -if 


<m_e*,<0    o. 


THE 


AMERICAN 


FEMALE    POETS: 


WITH 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND   CRITICAL  NOTICES, 


BY 


CAROLINE    MAY. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

LINDSAY    &    BLAKISTON. 

1848. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1848,  by 
LINDSAY    &   BLAKISTON, 

in  the  clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


STEREOTYPED     BY    J.     FA(    AN. 
PRINTED     BY     C.    SHERMAN. 


(4) 


PS  580 
M3 

184-6 


PREFACE. 


ONE  of  the  most  striking  characteristics  of  the  present  age 
is  the  number  of  female  writers,  especially  in  the  department 
of  belles-lettres.  This  is  even  more  true  of  the  United 
States,  than  of  the  old  world  ;  and  poetry,  which  is  the  lan 
guage  of  the  affections,  has  been  freely  employed  among  us 
to  express  the  emotions  of  woman's  heart. 

Few  American  women,  besides  the  author  of  Zophiel,  have 
written  poems  of  any  considerable  length,  but  many  have 
published  volumes  of  poetry,  and  fugitive  pieces  of  various 
merit  have  been  poured  forth  through  our  newspapers  and 
other  periodicals,  with  the  utmost  profusion.  This  very 
profuseness  has  led  many  to  underrate  the  genuine  value, 
which  upon  closer  examination  will  be  found  appertaining 
to  these  snatches  of  American  song.  As  the  rare  exotic, 
costly  because  of  the  distance  from  which  it  is  brought,  will 
often  suffer  in  comparison  of  beauty  and  fragrance  with  the 
abundant  wild  flowers  of  our  meadows  and  woodland  slopes, 
so  the  reader  of  our  present  volume,  if  ruled  by  an  honest 

taste,  will  discover  in  the  effusions  of  our  gifted   country- 
1»  (v) 


VI  PREFACE. 

women  as  much  grace  of  form,  and  powerful  sweetness 
of  thought  and  feeling,  as  in  the  blossoms  of  woman's  genius 
culled  from  other  lands. 

The  personal  pleasure  enjoyed  during  some  careful  searches 
for  the  greatest  specimens  of  worth  and  beauty  in  this  fertile 
garden  of  literature,  has  led  the  editor  to  believe  that  the 
collection  now  made  may  not  be  unwelcome  to  the  public 
generally.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  not  many  ladies 
in  this  country  are  permitted  sufficient  leisure  from  the  cares 
and  duties  of  home  to  devote  themselves,  either  from 
choice,  or  as  a  means  of  living,  to  literary  pursuits.  Hence, 
the  themes  which  have  suggested  the  greater  part  of  the 
following  poems  have  been  derived  from  the  incidents  and 
associations  of  every-day  life.  And  home,  with  its  quiet 
joys,  its  deep  pure  sympathies,  and  its  secret  sorrows,  with 
which  a  stranger  must  not  intermeddle,  is  a  sphere  by  no 
means  limited  for  woman,  whose  inspiration  lies  more  in 
her  heart  than  her  head.  Deep  emotions  make  a  good 
foundation  for  lofty  and  beautiful  thoughts.  The  deeper 
the  foundation,  the  more  elevated  may  be  the  superstructure. 
Moreover,  the  essence  of  poetry  is  beauty;  "  the  essence 
of  beauty  is  love."  And  where  should  women  lavish  most 
unreservedly,  and  receive  most  largely,  the  warmest,  purest, 
and  most  changeless,  affection,  but  in  the  sacred  retirement 
of  home, 

"Where  love  is  an  unerring  Ji^lu, 
And  joy  its  own  security  ?' 

As  it  would  not  be  altogether  right  to  send  forth  the 
editor's  gatherings  without  some  attention  to  order  and 


PREFACE.  Vli 

classification,  a  chronological  arrangement,  so  far  as  it  was 
possible,  has  been  pursued.  Neither  have  pains  been 
spared  to  seek  out  those  who  in  the  earlier  years  of  the 
country  have  written  verses  perhaps  of  slight  merit,  yet 
whose  names  are  interesting  from  other  considerations.  At 
the  same  time  the  desire  of  indulging  a  mere  antiquarian 
taste,  has  not  tempted  the  editor  from  the-  main  and  more 
useful  purpose  of  presenting  a  compilation  of  the  best  pieces. 
It  may  be  also,  that  a  few  names  have  been  omitted,  which, 
in  the  estimation  of  some,  should  have  received  notice. 
Where,  however,  the  materials  were  so  abundant,  and  the 
space  so  restricted,  it  was  necessary  to  select. 

The  accomplishment  of  this  work  has  been  greatly  assisted, 
by  the  cheerful  kindness  with  which  permission  to  use  the 
name  and  productions  of  the  authors  has  been  granted. 
Such  permission  has  been  sought  in  every  case  where  it  was 
practicable;  and,  with  very  few  exceptions,  nothing  could 
exceed  the  courtesy  and  liberality  shown  the  editor  by  those 
ladies  whose  favours  she  asked.  It  only  remains  for  her  to 
regret  that  one  or  two  names,  which  she  would  gladly 
have  inserted,  have  been  omitted,  in  compliance  with  the 
wishes  of  those  who  had  the  only  perfect  right  to  dictate  the 
omission. 

With  regard  to  the  biographical  part,  facts  have  been 
sought,  and  generally  obtained  from  the  direct  sources  of 
reliable  information.  In  a  few  instances,  the  editor  has  been 
compelled  to  resort  to  printed  authorities ;  for  one  notice 
(that  of  Mrs.  Lowell,)  she  is  wholly  indebted  to  Mr.  Gris- 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

wold,  whose  politeness  should  be  appreciated  more  highly, 
as  he  is  himself  engaged  upon  a  work  of  a  similar  character. 
Reports  or  on-dits,  whether  flattering  or  detractive,  have 
been  invariably  rejected. 

This  may  account  for  the  shortness  of  some  of  the  sketches, 
the  subjects  of  which  are  themselves  most  interesting.  No 
women  of  refinement,  however  worthy  of  distinction  —  and 
the  most  worthy  are  always  the  most  modest  —  like  to  have 
the  holy  privacy  of  their  personal  movements  invaded.  To 
say  where  they  were  born  seems  quite  enough  while  they  are 
alive.  Thus,  several  of  our  correspondents  declared  their 
fancies  to  be  their  only  facts;  others  that  they  had  done 
nothing  all  their  lives;  and  some, — with  a  modesty  most 
extreme  —  that  they  had  not  lived  at  all. 

If  in  any  case  it  may  be  thought  that  due  justice  has  not 
been  done,  the  editor  is  conscious  that  the  error  has  been 
unintentional ;  and  hopes  for  that  ready  pardon  which 
true  charity  always  accords  to  a  right  purpose,  however 
imperfectly  executed. 


CONTENTS. 


ANNE  BRADSTREET 

Biographical  Sketch fAOK    15 

From  "  Contemplations '' 16 

JANE  TURELL 

Biographical  Sketch 21 

A  Paraphrase  of  the  one  hundred 

and  thirty-fourth  Psalm 22 

An  Invitation  into  the  Country, 

in  Imitation  of  Horace 24 

ANNE  ELIZA  BLEECKER 

Biographical  Sketch 26 

To  .Mr.  Bleecker,  on  his  Passage 

to  New  York 27 

An  Evening  Prospect 29 

Lint-s  to  Grief 31 

Hymn 32 

Return  to  Tonihanick 32 

MARGARKTTA  V.  FAUGERES 

Biographical  Sketch 34 

The  Hudson 34 

A  Version  of  part  of  the  seventh 

chapter  of  Job 37 

On  a  Painter 39 

PHILLIS  VVHEATLEY 

Biographical  Sketch 39 

On  the  Death  of  a  Young  Gentle 
man  of  great  Promise 40 

Sleep 41 

MERCY  WARREN 

Biographical  Sketch 42 

Extract  from  a  Political  Reverie.     42 
To  an  amiable  Friend  Mourning 
the  Death  of  an  excellent  Father    44 

SARAH  PORTER 

Biographical  Sketch 46 

The  Royal  Penitent's  Self-Impre 
cation  46 

Grandeur  Fails  to  give  Content. .     46 


SARAH  WENTWORTH  MORTON 

Biographical  Sketch 48 

The  African  Chief 48 

MRS.  LITTLE 

Biographical  Sketch 50 

Thanksgiving    50 

MARIA  A.  BROOKS 

Biographical  Sketch 57 

Description  of  Egla 58 

Egla's  Bower 60 

Ambition 61 

The   Obedient   Love  of  Woman 

her  Highest  Bliss 62 

ZophieTs  Offerings  to  Egla 63 

Sardius  in  his  Pavilion  with  Al- 

thcetor 64 

ZophieTs  Lament  over  Altheetor  65 

Midnight 66 

The  Gnome's  Song 67 

Morning 68 

Twilicht  Thoughts 69 

Song 70 

The  Guardian  Angel 71 

To  Robert  Southey 72 

Friendship    73 

Lines   74 

Song  76 

LYDIA  HTNTLEY  SIGOURNEY 

Biographical  Sketch 76 

Sunset  on  the  Alleghany 78 

Farewell  to  a  Rural  Residence  ...  HO 

Autumn 84 

To  an  Absent  Daughter 85 

Wild  Flowers  Gathered  for  a  Sick 

Friend    86 

Solitude  86 

The  Happy  Farmer 88 

The  Lonely  Church 89 

No  Concealment 90 

The  Benefactress 91 


CONTENTS. 


The  Little  Hand 93 

Silent  Devotion 94 

To  a  Dying  Infant 95 

Lines 96 

Advertisement  of  a  Lost  Day. ...  97 

Memory 98 

Dew-Drops 99 

ANNA  MARIA  WELLS 

Biographical  Sketch 100 

My  Closet 100 

Morning 102 

To  Mary,  Sleeping 103 

"  We  '11  Never  Part  Again  " 104 

The  Sea-Bird 106 

The  White  Hare 108 

The  Future J09 

To  the  Whippoorwill Ill 

Hope 112 

CAROLINE  OILMAN 

Biographical  Sketch 115 

My  Piazza 115 

A  Sketch 117 

"  He  for  God  only,  She  for  God  in 

Him" 118 

My  Garden 119 

Old  Age 121 

The  Child's  Wish  in  June 121 

The  Mocking-Bird  in  the  City 122 

SARAH  JOSEPHA  HALE 

Biographical  Sketch 123 

Iron 324 

The  Chase  of  Pleasure 127 

The  Four-Leaved  Clover 128 

The  Watcher 130 

I  Sing  to  Him 131 

Description  of  Alice  Ray 132 

The  Mississippi 134 

The  First  Swallow 138 

Bonds 140 

The  Two  Maidens 141 

Is  China  Our  Neighbour? 142 

The  Power  of  Music 143 

It  Snows 145 

MARIA  JAMES 

Biographical  Sketch 147 

The  Twilight  Hour 148 

Christmas 148 

Good-Friday 150 

The  Picture 150 

What  is  Poetry  ? 151 


JESSIE  G.  M'CARTEE 

Biographical  Sketch 151 

How  Beautiful  is  Sleep 152 

The  Stream  in  the  Desert 154 

The  Death  of  Moses 155 

The  Heavenly  Song 156 

MRS.  GRAY 

Biographical  Sketch 157 

Sabbath  Reminiscences 158 

Two  Hundred  Years  Ago 161 

Morn 164 

ELIZA  FOLLEN 

Biographical  Sketch 166 

Winter  Scenes  in  the  Country  ...  166 

On  the  Death  of  a  Beautiful  Girl.  169 

"  To  Whom  Shall  We  Go  ?" 169 

To  My  ^Eolian  Harp 170 

The  Little  Spring 170 

LOUISA  JANE  HALL 

Biographical  Sketch 171 

Prayer 172 

Miriam  explains  to  Paulus  why 

They  must  Part 173 

Miriam  Appeals  to  the  Heart  of 

Piso 178 

MRS.  SWIFT 

Biographical  Sketch 181 

Stanzas 181 

The  Night-Blooming  Cereus 182 

Memory 183 

A  Christmas  Carol 184 

MRS.  E.  C.  KINNEY 

Biographical  Sketch 185 

The  Quakeress  Bride 186 

Fading  Autumn 187 

A  Winter  Night 187 

Cultivation 188 

Encouragement 188 

The  Spirit  of  Song 189 

Mount  Hope  Cemetery,  Rochester  191 

MARGUERITE  ST.  LEON  LOUD 

Biographical  Sketch 193 

The  Deserted  Homestead 193 

"  Jesus  Wept " 195 

Prayer  for  an  Absent  Husband. . .  196 
The  Aged ]97 


LUELLA  J.  CASE 

Biographical  Sketch. 
Energy  in  Adversity 


198 


J 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


Charity 199 

The  Unbidden  Guest 19< 

ELIZABETH  BOGART 

Biographical  Sketch 20 

He  Came  Too  Late 202 

To  the  Memory  of  a  Friend  who 

Died  on  Sabbath  Morning 303 

The  Country  Church 205 

A.  D.  WOODBRIDGE 

Biographical  Sketch 207 

Life's  Light  and  Shade 207 

To  Lillie 209 

ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHAND- 
LER 

Biographical  Sketch 210 

The  Brandyw  ine 210 

The  Soldier's  Prayer 213 

The  Devoted 215 

The  Chinese  Son 216 

EMMA  C.  EMBURY 

Biographical  Sketch 218 

"The  Night  Cometh" 219 

Christ  in  the  Tempest 221 

Jane  of  France 223 

Absence 225 

Farewell 226 

Maiden  Purity 227 

How  Have  I  Thought  of  Thee?. .  228 

Confidence  in  Heaven 229 

Remembrance 229 

Love  Me  Still 230 

Poor,  but  Happy 231 

Error 232 

Inquietude 232 

Oh  !  Tell  Me  Not  of  Lofty  Fate. .  233 

Dark  Thoughts 234 

Heedlessness 235 

SARAH  HELENA  WHITMAN 

Biographical  Sketch 236 

Thoughts  of  the  Past 237 

A  Song  of  Spring 239 

David  240 

She  Blooms  No  More 242 

On  Carlo  Dolce's  Magdalen 244 

Hymn 24(3 

CYNTHIA  TAGGART 

Biographical  Sketch 248 

Invocation  to  Health 250 

Autumn 251 

Ode  to  the  Poppy 252 


ELIZABETH  J.  EAMES 

Biographical  Sketch 
"  There  shall  be  Light  " 
Diem  Perdidi 
Charity 
Li  nes 


On    the    Picture  of  a    Departed 
Poetess  ....................... 

ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH 

Biographical  Sketch  ............. 

The  Acorn  ...................... 

Charity,  in  Despair  of  Justice  ____ 

The  Great  Aim  ................. 

Angels  .......................... 

Unprofitable  Servants  ........... 

Stanzas  ......................... 

Strength  from  the  Hills  .......... 

Night  ........................... 

The  Recall,  or  Soul  Melody  ...... 

The  April  Rain  ................. 

Love  Dead  ...................... 


255 
255 
257 
257 


259 

260 
ogj 

269 
270 
270 
271 
272 
273 
274 
276 
277 
279 


MARY  E.  BROOKS 

Biographical  Sketch  .............  281 

Oh,  Weep  Not  for  the  Dead  .....  281 

The  Lament  of  Judah  ...........  282 

The  Song  of  Captive  Israel  ......  282 

Dream  of  Life  ...................  283 

Song  ...........................  2S4 

LUCRET1A  AND  MARGARET  DA- 
VIDSON 

Biographical  Sketch  .............  285 

LUCRETIA 

To  My  Sister  ...................  289 

Feats  of  Death  ..................  290 

Morning  ........................  291 

On  the  Motto  of  a  Seal  ..........  292 

MARGARET 

To  My  Sister  Lucretia  ..........  292 

To  Die,  and  be  Forgotten  ........  294 

On  My  Mother's  Fiftieth  Birthday  295 
Twilight  ........................  296 

SARAH  LOUISA  P.  SMITH 

Biographical  Sketch  .............  297 

The  Huma  ......................  298 

I  Would  Never  Kneel  ...........  299 

Stan/as  ........................  300 

The  Fall  of  Warsaw  ............  301 

YDIA  JANE  PEIRSON 

Biographical  Sketch  .............  303 

Remembrance  of  Childhood  ......  305 


Xll 


CONTENTS. 


Sing  On  ! 306 

The  Last  Pale  Flowers 308 

Come  to  the  Woods 309 

The  Bride  of  Heaven 311 

Sunset  in  the  Forest 311 

JULIA  H.  SCOTT 

Biographical  Sketch 313 

My  Child 313 

Love  in  Absence 315 

To 316 

ANN  S.  STEPHENS 

Biographical  Sketch 317 

The  Old  Apple-Tree 317 

Song 321 

CAROLINE  M.  SAWYER 

Biographical  Sketch 322 

Edith 322 

The  Boy  and  his  Angel 324 

The  Valley  of  Peace 326 

CATHERINE  H.  ESLING 

Biographical  Sketch 328 

Brother,  Come  Home 328 

How  Shall  I  Woo  Thee  ? 330 

He  was  our  Father's  Darling 331 

LAURA  M.  THURSTON 

Biographical  Sketch 332 

The  Green  Hills  of  My  Father- 
Land  333 

The  Sleeper 335 

MARTHA  DAY 

Biographical  Sketch 336 

Hymn 337 

MARY  ANN  H.  DODD 

Biographical  Sketch 338 

The  Dreamer 338 

The  Mourner 340 

MARY  E.  HEWITT 

Biographical  Sketch 342 

Lament  of  Josephine 342 

Alone 343 

Bless  Thee 344 

The  Last  Chant  of  Corinne 345 

Green  Places  in  the  City 346 

The  Ocean  Tide  to  the  Rivulet  . .  346 
The  Prayer  of  a  Thirsting  Heart.  347 
Midnight  on  Marathon 348 


ANNA  PEYRE  plNNIES 

Biographical  Sketch 350 

Happiness 350 

Lines 351 

The  Wife 352 

Wedded  Love 353 

To  my  Husband's  First  Gray  Hair  355 

Hope 356 

Lines 357 

ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET 

Biographical  Sketch 358 

Susquehanna 359 

"  Abide  With  Us" 362 

The  Dying  Girl's  Message... 363 

Sodus  Bay 364 

Lines 366 

The  Waves  that  on  the  Sparkling 

Sand 367 

The  Cloud  where  Sunbeams  soft 

Repose 368 

Like  Southern  Birds 369 

O'er  the   far  Mountain  Peak  on 

High 369 

Sonnet 370 

Sonnet 370 

MARY  N.  M'DONALD 

Biographical  Sketch 371 

June 371 

To  Li/zie 375 

The  Spells  of  Memory 377 

The  Little  Bird  that  told  the  Se 
cret  379 

FRANCES  S.  OSGOOD 

Biographical  Sketch 381 

Labour 382 

Slander 383 

The  Life-Voyage 385 

ASong 389 

A  Song 390 

Silent  Love 391 

"  She  Loves  Him  Yet" 391 

Stanzas  for  Music 392 

The  Boy  Painter 394 

The  Talisman 394 

Little  Children 397 

To  a  Dear  Little  Truant 399 

A  Mother's  Prayer  in  Illness 400 

The  Child  Playing  with  a  Watch  401 

THE  SISTERS  OF  THE  WEST 

Biographical  Sketch 402 

A  Valley  of  Virginia 403 


CONTENTS. 


Xlll 


Lines 404 

The  Palaces  of  Araby 406 

Bury  Her  with  Her  Shining  Hair.  408 

MARIA  LOWELL 

Biographical  Sketch 409 

Jesus  and  the  Dove 410 

Song 41-2 

The  Morning-Glory 413 

MARY  L.  SEWARD 

Biographical  Sketch 415 

Sympathy 415 

Jesus'  Night  of  Prayer 417 

ANNE  M.  F.  ANNAN 

Biographical  Sketch 418 

The  Daughter  of  the  Blind 419 

LOUISA  S.  M'CORD 

Biographical  Sketch 420 

Spirit  of  the  Storm 421 

'Tis  but  Thee,  Love,  only  Thee. .  422 

M.  C.  CANF1ELD 

Biographical  Sketch 423 

The  Elector  of  Saxony  at  Augs 
burg 423 

AMANDA  M.  EDMOXD 

Biographical  Sketch 425 

When  is  the  Time  to  Die  ? 426 

The  Greenwood  Depths 427 

HARRIETTS  FANNING  READ 

Biographical  Sketch 429 

Medea's  Love 430 

Medea's  Revenge 433 

ANNA  CORA  MOWATT 

Biographical  Sketch 435 

Time 430 

My  Life 436 

Love 437 

LUCY  HOOPER 

Biographical  Sketch 438 

"  Time,  Faith,  Energy" 439 

It  is  Well 441 

The  Old  Days  We  Remember. ...  443 
Give  Me  Armour  of  Proof 444 

EMILY  E.  JUDSON 

Biographical  Sketch 446 

My  Bird 446 

My  Mother 447 


ANNE  CHARLOTTE  LYNCH 

Biographical  Sketch 449 

Wasted  Fountains 450 

Sonnet 453 

Sonnet 452 

Sonnet 453 

Sonnet 453 

Sonnet 454 

Sonnet 454 

Day-Dawn  in  Italy 455 

Books  for  the  People  . .   457 

Lines 458 

Ode 459 

The  Wounded  Vulture 460 

SARAH  C.  EDGARTON  MAYO 

Biographical  Sketch 461 

Be  Firm 462 

Thou  art  Formed  to  Guide 462 

Ambition 463 

The  Answered  Prayer 463 

MARY  E.  LEE 

Biographical  Sketch 466 

The  Poets 466 

Hast  Thou  Forgot  Me  ? 467 

The  Rainy  Day 469 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY 
Biographical  Sketch 

Musings 

The  Presence  of  God 
The  Freed  Bird  . . 


471 

471 

474 

476 

My  Sisters 478 

The  American  Sword 480 

Seventeen 482 

JULIET  H.  CAMPBELL 

Biographical  Sketch 484 

Dreams 4R| 

A  Confession 486 

Lines  at  Night 487 

Tarpeia 488 

SARAH  J.  CLARKE 

Biographical  Sketch 490 

Ariadne 491 

Voices  from  the  Old  World 495 

A  Morning  Ride 498 

ALICE  B.  NEAL 

Biographical  Sketch 500 

Blind 501 

There  is  No  Such  Word  as  Fail. .  507 


XIV 


CO  NTENTS 


Do  Not  Blame  Me 508 

Midnight,  and  Daybreak 509 

The  Church 510 

E.  JUSTINE  BAYARD 

Biographical  Sketch 511 

A  Funeral  Chant  for  the  Old  Year  511 

Music  of  Nature 513 

Sonnet 515 

Song 515 

Error 516 

Stanzas 516 

MARION  H.  RAND 

Biographical  Sketch 519 

Sympathy 519 

Infancy 520 


ANGELINA  S.  MUMFORD 

Biographical  Sketch 522 

Cheerful  Content 522 

ToaLady 524 


HELEN  W.  IRVING 

Biographical  Sketch. 
Love  and  Fame 


MARGARET  JUNKIN 

Biographical  Sketch 528 

Galileo  before  the  Inquisition. . . .  528 

MARY  J.  REED 

Biographical  Sketch 530 

Weary 530 

Little  Children 531 


FEMALE  POETS 


OP 


AMERICA. 


ANNE  BRADSTREET. 

ANNE  BRADSTREET,  wife  of  Simon  Bradstreet,  governor  of  Massachu 
setts  colony,  and  daughter  of  Governor  Thomas  Dudley,  was  born  at 
Northampton,  England,  in  the  year  1012.  She  was  married  at  the 
age  of  sixteen,,  and  the  following  year  came  with  her  husband  to  this 
country.  She  died  September  10th,  1072. 

Although  "  merrie  old  Englande"  claims  her  birth-place,  the  honour 
of  her  poetical  fame  belongs  to  America ;  for  we  find  her  recorded 
as  the  earliest  poet  of  New  England,  where  she  gained  much  celebrity 
by  the  spirit  and  power  of  hor  writings.  Cotton  Mather  is  warm  in 
her  praise,  and  declares  that  "  her  poems,  divers  times  printed,  have 
afforded  a  grateful  entertainment  unto  the  ingenious,  and  a  monu 
ment  for  her  memory  beyond  the  stateliest  marbles."  The  learned 
and  excellent  John  Norton,  of  Ipswich,  calls  her  "the  mirror  of  her 
age,  and  the  glory  of  her  sex."  That  she  must  have  been  also  a  bright 
example  to  women,  worthy  of  a  close  imitation,  we  cannot  doubt; 
for  we  learn  from  the  preface  to  the  second  edition  of  her  poems,  that 
she  was  as  much  loved  for  her  gentleness,  discretion,  and  domestic 
diligence,  as  she  was  admired  for  her  genius,  wit,  and  love  of  learn 
ing.  The  volume  is  pronounced  to  be  "  the  work  of  a  woman,  honoured 
and  esteemed  where  she  lives,  for  her  gracious  demeanour,  her  emi- 

(15) 


16  ANNE     BRADSTREET. 

nent  parts,  her  pious  conversation,  her  courteous  disposition,  her  exact 
diligence  in  her  place,  and  discreet  managing  of  her  family  occasions; 
and  more  than  so,  these  poems  are  the  fruit  but  of  some  few  hours, 
curtailed  from  her  sleep,  and  other  refreshments."  What  a  sweet  and 
rare  description  of  a  woman  of  genius ! 

The  contents  of  her  book  are  curious :  a  Poem  upon  the  Four  Ele 
ments,  the  Four  Humours  in  Man's  Constitution,  the  Four  Ages  of 
Man,  and  the  Four  Seasons  of  the  Year ;  in  these  we  are  presented 
with  personifications  of  Fire,  Air,  Earth,  and  Water;  C holer,  Blood, 
Melancholy,  and  Phlegm;  Childhood,  Youth,  Middle  Age,  and  Old 
Age;  each  of  whom  cornes  forth  with  an  address  in  which  its  peculiar 
excellencies  are  depicted.  Then  follows  a  versified  History  of  the 
Four  Monarchies  of  the  World;  with  divers  other  Pleasant  and 
Serious  Poems.  The  subjoined  extracts  are  from  a  long  poem  entitled 
Contemplations,  and  prove  Mrs.  Bradstreet  to  have  been  a  genuine 
poet.  The  slow,  stately  measure  she  adopted,  suits  well  the  solemn 
majesty  of  her  musing  thoughts. 

FROM   "CONTEMPLATIONS." 

I  WIST  not  what  to  wish,  yet  sure,  thought  I, 

If  so  much  excellence  abide  below, 
How  excellent  is  He,  that  dwells  on  high  f 

Whose  power  and  beauty  by  his  works  we  know. 
Sure  He  is  goodness,  wisdome,  glory,  light, 
That  hath  this  under  world  so  richly  (light : 
More  heaven  than  earth  was  here,  no  winter  and  no  night. 

Then  on  a  stately  oak   J  cast  mine  eye, 

Whose  ruffling  top  the  clouds  seemed  to  aspire; 

How  long  since  thou  wast  in  thine  infancy  ? 

Thy  strength,  and  stature,  more  thy  years  admire. 

Have  hundred  winters  past  since  thou  wast  born  ? 

Or  thousand  since  thou  brak'st  thy  shell  of  horn  ? 

If  so,  all  these  as  nought,  eternity  doth  scorn. 

Then  higher  on  the  glistering  sun  I  gazed, 
Whose  beams  were  shaded  by  the  leavie  tree, 


ANNE     BRADSTREET.  17 

The  more  I  looked,  the  more  I  grew  amazed, 
And  softly  said,  what  glory  's  like  to  thee  ? 
Soul  of  this  world,  this  Universe's  eye, 
No  wonder  some  made  thee  a  deity ; 
Had  I  not  better  known,  alas !  the  same  had  I. 

Thou  as  a  bridegroom  from  thy  chamber  rushest, 

And  as  a  strong  man  joyes  to  run  a  race, 
The  morn  doth  usher  thee  with  smiles  and  blushes, 

The  earth  reflects  her  glances  in  thy  face. 
Birds,  insects,  animals  with  vegetive, 
Thy  heart  from  death  and  dulness  doth  revive, 
And  in  the  darksome  womb  of  fruitful  nature  dive. 

Art  thou  so  full  of  glory,  that  no  eye 

Hath  strength  thy  shining  rayes  once  to  behold? 
And  is  thy  splendid  throne  erect  so  high, 

As  to  approach  it  can  no  earthly   mould  ? 
How  full  of  glory  then  must  thy  Creator  be, 
Who  gave  this  bright  light  lustre  unto  thee! 
Admired,  adored  for  ever,  be  that  Majesty. 

***** 
Who  thinks  not  oft  upon  the  fathers'  ages, 

Their  long  descent,  how  nephew's  sons  they  saw, 
The  starry  observations  of  those  sages, 

And  how  their  precepts  to  their  sons  were  law  ; 
How  Adam  sighed  to  see  his  progeny 
Clothed  all  in  his  black  sinful  livery, 
Who  neither  guilt  nor  yet  the  punishment  could  fly. 

Our  life  compare  we  with  their  Irngth  of  dayes, 
Who  to  the  tenth  of  theirs  doth  now  arrive  ? 

And  though  thus  short,  we  shorten  many  waves. 
Living  so  Uttle   while  we  are  alive; 

In  eating,  drinking,  sleeping,  vain  delight, 

So  unawares  comes  on  perpetual  night, 

And  puts  all  pleasures  vain  unto  eternal  flight. 
2*  B 


18  ANNEBRADSTREET. 

When  I  behold  the  heavens  as  in  their  prime, 
And  then  the  earth  (though  old)  still  clad  in  green, 

The  stones  and  trees,  insensible  of  time, 

Nor  age  nor  wrinkle  on  their  front  are  seen ; 

If  winter  come,  and  greenness  then  do  fade, 

A  Spring  returns,  and  they  more  youthfull  made ; 

But  man  grows  old,  lies  down,  remains  where  once  he 's 
laid. 

By  birth  more  noble  than  those  creatures  all, 

Yet  seems  by  nature  and  by  custome  cursed ; 
No  sooner  born,  but  grief  and  care  make  fall 

That  state  obliterate  he  had  at  first. 
Nor  youth,  nor  strength,  nor  wisdom  spring  again, 
Nor  habitations  long  their  names  retain, 
But  in  oblivion  to  the  final  day  remain. 

#  *  #  #  # 

Under  the  cooling  shadow  of  a  stately  elm, 

Close  sate  I  by  a  goodly  river's  side, 
Where  gliding  streams  the  rocks  did  overwhelm ; 

A  lonely  place,  with  pleasures  dignified. 
I  once  that  loved  the  shady  woods  so  well, 
Now  thought  the  rivers  did  the  trees  excell, 
And  if  the  sun  would  ever  shine,  there  would  I  dwell. 

While  on  the  stealing  stream  I  fixt  mine  eye, 
Which  to  the  longed-for  Ocean  held  its  course, 

I  markt  nor  crooks  nor  rubs  that  there  did  lye 
Could  hinder  aught,  but  still  augment  its  force; 

O  happy  Flood,  quoth  I,  that  holdst  thy  race 

Till  thou  arrive  at  thy  beloved  place, 

Nor  is  it  rocks  or  shoals  that  can  obstruct  thy  pace. 

Nor  is't  enough  that  thou  alone  mayst  slide, 
But  hundred  brooks  in  thy  cleer  waves  do  meet, 

So  hand  in  hand  along  with  thee  they  glide 
To  Thetis'  house,  where  all  embrace  and  greet : 


J 


ANNE     BRADSTREET.  19 

Thou  Emblem  true  of  what  I  count  the  best, 

0  could  I  lead  my  Rivulets  to  rest, 

So  may  we  press  to  that  vast  mansion,  ever  blest. 

Ye  Fish  which  in  this  liquid  region  'bide, 

That  for  each  season  have  your  habitation, 
Now  salt,  now  fresh,  where  you  think  best  to  glide, 

To  unknown  coasts  to  give  a  visitation, 
In  lakes  and  ponds  you  leave  your  numerous  fry, 
So  nature  taught,  and  yet  you  know  not  why, 
You  watry  folk  that  know  not  your  felicity. 

Look  how  the  wantons  frisk  to  taste  the  air, 

Then  to  the  colder  bottome  straight  they  dive, 
Eftsoon  to  Neptune's  glassie  Hall  repair 

To  see  what  trade  the  great  ones  there  do  drive, 
Who  forage  o'er  the  spacious  sea-green  field, 
And  take  the  trembling  prey  before  it  yield, 
Whose  armour  is  their  scales,  their  spreading  fins  their 
shield. 

While  musing  thus  with  contemplation  fed, 
And  thousand  fancies  buzzing  in  my  brain, 

The  sweet-tongued  Philomel  percht  o'er  my  head, 
And  chanted  forth  a  most  melodious  strain, 

Which  rapt  me  so  with  wonder  and  delight, 

1  judged  my  hearing  better  than  my  sight, 

And  wisht  me  wings  with  her  awhile  to  take  my  flight. 

O  merry  Bird  (said  I)  that  fears  no  snares, 

That  neither  toyles  nor  hoards  up  in  thy  barn, 
Feels  no  sad  thoughts,  nor  cruciating  cares 

To  gain  more  good,  or  shun  what  might  thee  harm ; 
Thy  cloaths  ne'er  wear,  thy  meat  is  everywhere. 
Thy  bed  a  bough,  thy  drink  the  water  cleer, 
Reminds  not  what  is  past,  nor  what 's  to  come  dost  fear. 


20  ANNE     BRAD  S-TREET. 

The  dawning  morn  with  songs  thou  dost  prevent, 
Setts  hundred  notes  unto  thy  feathered  crew, 

So  each  one  tunes  his  pretty  instrument, 
And  warbling  out  the  old,  begins  anew, 

And  thus  they  pass  their  youth  in  summer  season, 

Then  follow  thee  into  a  better  Region 

Where  winter 's  never  felt  by  that  sweet  airy  legion. 

Man  's  at  the  best  a  creature  frail  and  vain, 

In  knowledge  ignorant,  in  strength  but  weak ; 
Subject  to  sorrows,  losses,  sickness,  pain, 

Each  storm  his  state,  his  mind,  his  body  break  : 
From  some  of  these  he  never  finds  cessation, 
But  day  or  night,  within,  without,  vexation, 
Troubles  from  foes,  from  friends,  from  dearest,  near'st 
relation. 

And  yet  this  sinfull  creature,  frail  and  vain, 

This  lump  of  wretchedness,  of  sin  and  sorrow. 
This  weather-beaten  vessel  wrackt  with  pain, 

Joyes  not  in  hope  of  an  eternal  morrow  : 
Nor  all  his  losses,  crosses  and  vexation, 
In  weight,  in  frequency  and  long  duration, 
Can  make  him  deeply  groan  for  that  divine  Translation 

The  mariner  that  on  smooth  waves  doth  glide, 

Sings  merrily,  and  steers  his  barque  with  ease, 
As  if  he  had  command  of  wind  and  tide, 

And  now  become  great  Master  of  the  seas ; 
But  suddenly  a  storm  spoils  all  the  sport, 
And  makes  him  long  for  a  more  quiet  port, 
Which  'gainst  all  adverse  winds  may  serve  for  fort. 

So  he  that  saileth  in  this  world  of  pleasure, 
Feeding  on  sweets,  that  never  bit  of  th'  sowre, 

That's  full  of  friends,  of  honour  and  of  treasure, 
Fond  fool,  he  takes  this  earth  ev'n  for  heav'n's  bower. 


JANETURELL.  21 

But  sad  affliction  comes,  and  makes  him  see 
Here's  neither  honour,  wealth,  nor  safety; 
Only  above  is  found  all  with  security. 

O  Time !    the  fatal  wrack  of  mortal  things, 

That  draws  oblivion's  curtain  over  kings, 

Their  sumptuous  monuments,  men  know  them  not, 

Their  names  without  a  Record  are  forgot, 

Their  parts,  their  ports,  their  pomp's  all  laid  i'  th'  dust, 

Nor  wit  nor  gold,  nor  buildings  'scape  Time's  rust; 

But  he  whose  name  is  graved  in  the  white  stone, 

Shall  last  and  shine,  when  all  of  these  are  gone. 


JANE  TURELL. 


JANE  TURELL  was  born  in  Boston,  170S.  She  was  the  only  daughter 
of  Dr.  Benjamin  Column,  a  clergyman  distinguished  for  his  learning, 
eloquence,  and  poetic  taste,  whose  early  life  was  varied  by  many  stirring 
and  romantic  incidents.  After  having  taken  his  degree  at  Harvard  Col 
lege,  he  embarked  for  London;  the  vessel  was  captured  by  a  French  pri 
vateer,  and  he  with  his  companions  were  imprisoned  at  Nantz.  At  the 
expiration  of  two  months,  an  exchange  of  prisoners  took  place  between 
the  English  and  French,  and  Mr.  Colman  was  transported  to  Ports 
mouth.  From  thence  he  went  to  London,  and,  not  very  long  afler,  was 
appointed  to  take  charge  of  a  church  in  Bath,  where  he  formed  an  inti 
mate  acquaintance  with  Miss  Singer,  afterwards  the  celebrated  Mrs. 
Rowe.  On  his  return  to  his  native  country,  he  was  settled  over  the 
Brattle  Street  Church,  Boston ;  in  which  station  he  remained  till  his 
death,  nearly  half  a  century  afterward. 

His  daughter  Jane  early  evinced  a  fondness  for  learning,  and  was 
encouraged  by  her  father  to  pursue  with  indefatigable  industry  all  lite 
rary  pursuits.  In  her  nineteenth  year  she  was  married  to  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Turell,  of  Medford,  a  village  near  Boston.  She  had  then  read,  and 


22  JANETURELL. 

thoroughly  understood,  all  the  works  of  Divinity  History,  and  Philoso 
phy,  to  which  she  could  gain  access;  and  was  regarded  with  great 
admiration  by  all  who  surrounded  her  for  her  superior  attainments.  She 
died  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven,  having,  in  her  short  life,  "  faithfully 
fulfilled  all  those  duties  which  shed  the  brightest  lustre  upon  woman's 
name;  the  duties  of  the  friend,  the  daughter,  the  mother,  and  the 
wife." 

Her  poems  were  collected  in  a  pamphlet,  and  published  by  her  hus 
band,  immediately  after  her  death. 

A     PARAPHRASE     OF     THE     ONE     HUNDRED     AND 
THIRTY-FOURTH     PSALM. 

As  on  the  margin  of  Euphrates'  flood 

We  wail'd  our  sins,  and  mourn'd  an  angry  God  •, 

(For  God  provoked,  to  strangers  gave  our  land, 

And  by  a  righteous  Judge  condemned  we  stand ;) 

Deep  were  our  groans,  our  griefs  without  compare, 

With  ardent  cries  we  rent  the  yielding  air. 

Borne  down  with  woes,  no  friend  at  hand  was  found. 

No  helper  in  the  waste  and  barren  ground : 

Only  a  mournful  willow  wither'd  there, 

Its  aged  arms  by  winter  storms  made  bare ; 

On  this  our  lyres,  now  useless  grown,  we  hung, 

Our  lyres  by  us  forsaken,  and  unstrung! 

We  sigh'd  in  chains,  and  sunk  beneath  our  wo, 

Whilst  more  insulting  our  proud  tyrants  grow. 

From  hearts  oppressed  with  grief  they  did  require 

A  sacred  anthem  on  the  sounding  lyre ! 

Come  now,  they  cry,  regale  us  with  a  song, 

Music  and  mirth  the  fleeting  hours  prolong. 

Shall  Babel's  daughter  hear  that  blessed  sound  ? 

Shall  songs  divine  be  sung  on  heathen  ground  ? 

No,  Heaven  forbid  that  we  should  tune  our  voice, 

Or  touch  the  lyre !     Whilst  slaves  we  can't  rejoice. 

O  Palestina!    our  once  dear  abode, 

Thou  once  wert  blessed  with  peace,  and  loved  by  God ! 


JANETURELL.  23 

But  now  art  desolate,  a  barren  waste, 
Thy  fruitful  fields  by  thorns  and  weeds  defaced.' 
If  I  forget  Judea's  mournful  land, 
May  nothing  prosper  that  I  take  in  hand ! 
Or  if  I  string  the  lyre,  or  tune  my  voice, 
Till  thy  deliverance  cause  me  to  rejoice; 
O  may  my  tongue  forget  her  art  to  move, 
And  may  I  never  more  my  speech  improve! 
Return,  O  Lord !  avenge  us  of  our  foes, 
Destroy  the  men  that  up  against  us  rose: 
Let  Edom's  sons  thy  just  displeasure  know, 
And,  like  us,  serve  some  foreign  conquering  foe 
In  distant  realms ;  far  from  their  native  home, 
To  which  dear  seat  O  let  them  never  come ! 

Thou,  BabePs  daughter!  author  of  our  woe, 
Shalt  feel  the  stroke  of  some  revenging  blow : 
Thy  walls  and  towns  be  levelled  with  the  ground, 
Sorrow  and  grief  shall  in  each  soul  be  found  : 
Thrice  blest  the  man  who,  that  auspicious  night, 
Shall  seize  thy  trembling  infants  in  thy  sight, 
Regardless  of  thy  flowing  tears  and  moans, 
And  dash  the  tender  babes  against  the  stones.* 


*  Her  father  says  of  this  Paraphrase,  "  The  serious  melancholy  Psalm 
is  well  turned  in  the  most  parts  of  it,  considering  your  years  and  advan 
tages  for  such  a  performance.  You  speak  of  a  single  withered  willow 
which  they  hung  their  harps  on;  but  the  Euphrates  was  covered 
with  willows  along  the  banks  of  it,  so  that  it  has  been  called  the  River 
of  Willows.  I  hope,  my  dear,  your  lyre  will  not  be  hung  on  such  a 
sorrowful  shrub.  Go  on  in  sacred  songs,  and  we'll  hang  it  on  the 
stately  cedars  of  Lebanon.  Or  let  the  pleasant  elm  before  the  door 
where  you  are,  suffice  for  you." 


24  JANETURELL. 


AN     INVITATION     INTO     THE     COUNTRY,     IN 
IMITATION     OF     HORACE. 

FROM  the  soft  shades,  and  from  the  balmy  sweets 
Of  Medford's  flowery  vales,  and  green  retreats, 
Your  absent  Delia  to  her  father  sends, 
And  prays  to  see  him  ere  the  summer  ends. 

Now  while  the  earth  's  with  beauteous  verdure  dyed, 
And  P'lora  paints  the  meads  in  all  her  pride  ; 
While  laden  trees  Pomona's  bounty  own, 
And  Ceres'  treasures  do  the  fields  adorn, 
From  the  thick  smokes,  and  noisy  town,  O  come, 
And  in  these  plains  awhile  forget  your  home. 

Though  my  small  income  never  can  afford, 
Like  wealthy  Celsus  to  regale  a  lord  ; 
No  ivory  tables  groan  beneath  the  weight 
Of  sumptuous  dishes,  served  in  massy  plate  : 
The  forest  ne'er  was  searched  for  food  for  me, 
Nor  from  my  hounds  the  timorous  hare  does  flee  : 
No  leaden  thunder  strikes  the  fowl  in  air, 
Nor  from  my  shaft  the  winged  death  do  fear : 
With  silken  nets  I  ne'er  the  lakes  despoil, 
Nor  with  my  bait  the  larger  fish  beo-uile. 
No  luscious  sweetmeats,  by  my  servants  plac'd 
In  curious  order  e'er  my  tables  grac'd ; 
To  please  the  taste,  no  rich  Burgundian  wine, 
In  crystal  glasses  on  my  sideboard  shine ; 
The  luscious  sweets  of  fair  Canary's  isle 
Ne'er  fill'd  my  casks,  nor  in  my  flagons  smile  : 
No  wine,  but  what  does  from  my  apples  flow, 
My  frugal  house  on  any  can  bestow  : 
Except  when  Caesar's  birthday  does  return, 
And  joyful  fires  throughout  the  village  burn  ; 


JANETURELL.  25 

Then  moderate  each  takes  his  cheerful  glass, 
And  our  good  wishes  to  Augustus  pass. 

But  though  rich  dainties  never  spread  my  board, 

Nor  my  cool  vaults  Calabrian  wines  afford; 

Yet  what  is  neat  and  wholesome  I  can  spread, — 

My  good  fat  bacon,  and  our  homely  bread, 

With  which  my  healthful  family  is  fed. 

Milk  from  the  cow,  and  butter  newly  churnM, 

And  new  fresh  cheese,  with  curds  and  cream  just  turn'd. 

For  a  dessert  upon  my  table  's  seen 

The  golden  apple,  and  the  melon  green; 

The  blushing  peach,  and  glossy  plum  there  lies, 

And  with  the  mandrake  tempt  your  hands  and  eyes. 

These  I  can  give,  and  if  you  '11  here  repair, 
To  slake  your  thirst  a  cask  of  Autumn  beer, 
Reserved  on  purpose  for  your  drinking  here. 
Under  the  spreading  elms  our  limbs  we'll  lay, 
While  fragrant  zephyrs  round  our  temples  play; 
Retired  from  courts,  and  crowds,  secure  we  '11  sit 
And  freely  feed  upon  our  country  treat; 
No  noisy  faction  here  shall  dare  intrude, 
Or  once  disturb  our  peaceful  solitude. 

No  stately  beds  my  humble  roofs  adorn, 
Of  costly  purple,  by  carved  panthers  borne; 
Nor  can  I  boast  Arabia's  rich  perfumes, 
Diffusing  odors   through   our  stately   rooms. 
For  me  no  fair  Egyptian  plies  the  loom, 
But  my  fine  linen  all  is  made  at  home. 
Though   I  no  down   or  tapestry  can  spread, 
A  clean  soft  pillow  shall  support  your  head, 
Fill'd  with  the  wool  from  olf  my  tender  sheep, 
On  which  with  ease  and  safety  you  may  sleep. 
The  nightingale  shall  lull  you  to  your  rest, 
And  all  be  calm  and  still  as  is  your  breast. 
3 


ANN  ELIZA  BLEECKER. 


THE  interesting  subject  of  this  notice  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Brandt 
Schuyler,  and  was  born  in  New  York,  in  1752.  She  was  married  to 
John  J.  Bleecker,  Esq.,  of  New  Rochelle,  in  1769,  and  went  to  live  at 
Poughkeepsie.  From  that  place  she  soon  removed  to  a  village  some 
distance  above  Albany,  called  Tomhanick,  and  spent  several  years  of 
quiet  domestic  enjoyment  amidst  the  wild  scenes  of  this  romantic  spot. 
But  in  1777,  the  approach  of  Burgoyne's  army  from  Canada  spread  ter 
ror  and  dismay  through  the  back  settlements  in  that  quarter,  and  broke, 
for  a  time,  the  peaceful  happiness  of  her  home  in  the  wilderness.  Mr. 
Bleecker  hastened  to  Albany  to  prepare  a  shelter  for  his  family,  and  no 
sooner  had  he  gone,  than  the  fearful  news  was  brought  to  Mrs.  Bleecker, 
that  the  enemy  was  within  two  miles  of  the  village,  burning  and  killing 
all  before  him.  She  immediately  started  up,  and,  with  a  daughter 
clinging  to  each  side,  set  off  on  foot,  attended  only  by  a  young  mulatto 
girl,  leaving  her  house,  and  everything  in  it,  a  prey  to  the  savages. 

After  travelling,  without  being  able  to  obtain  any  assistance,  for  more 
than  five  miles,  she  at  length  procured  a  seat  for  the  children  in  a  wagon, 
and  walked  on,  herself,  to  the  village  of  Stony  Arabia;  where,  with 
much  difficulty,  she  found  shelter  in  a  garret.  The  next  morning  her 
husband  met  her  as  he  was  returning  from  Albany,  whither  they  all  pro 
ceeded,  and  quickly  set  sail  down  the  Hudson,  intending  to  go  to  Red- 
Hook  ;  at  which  place  they  hoped  for  safety  from  the  enemy.  But  on 
the  voyage  this  poor  lady  was  overtaken  by  a  fiercer  affliction,  from  the 
sword  and  flame  of  which  there  was  no  escaping.  Her  youngest 
daughter  was  taken  so  ill  that  they  were  forced  to  go  on  shore,  and, 
soon  after,  she  died.  Mrs.  Bleecker  never  recovered  from  this  blow; 
and  though,  after  the  capture  of  Burgoyne,  she  returned  to  her  former 
home  in  the  country,  she  could  never  regain  her  cheerfulness.  She 
lived  in  peace,  however,  until  one  day  in  August,  1781 ;  when  a  party 
of  the  enemy  seized  Mr.  Bleecker  and  two  of  his  men,  while  they  were 
busy  in  the  harvest-field,  and  carried  them  off  prisoners.  After  an 
absence  of  six  days,  during  which  time  his  wife  endured  all  the  sicken- 

(26) 


ANN     ELIZA     BLEECKER.  27 

ing  anguish  of  the  most  frightful  suspense  and  conjecture,  he  was  retaken 
by  some  Americans  from  Bennington,  and  returned  home. 

Mrs.  Bleecker  visited  her  native  city  after  the  peace  was  concluded ; 
but  the  havoc  war  had  made  among  the  scenes,  and  especially  among 
the  friends,  of  her  early  days,  weighed  so  heavily  on  her  spirits  that 
she  soon  sank  under  it.  She  returned  to  her  cottage  at  Tomhanick, 
and  died  on  the  23d  of  November,  1783,  aged  thirty-one. 

Her  poems  were  published  in  1793.  They  have  no  very  marked 
characteristics;  they  are  occasionally  sweet,  generally  mournful.  Her 
biographer  truly  says,  "Mrs.  Bleecker's  poetry  is  not  of  that  high  order 
which  would  sustain  itself  under  any  very  bold  attempt ;  but  the  events 
of  her  life  confer  a  degree  of  interest  upon  the  few  productions  which 
she  has  left  behind  her.  A  female  cultivating  the  elegant  arts  of  re 
fined  society,  at  the  ultima  Thule  of  civilized  life,  in  regions  of  savage 
wildness,  and  among  scenes  of  alarm,  desolation,  and  bloodshed,  is  a 
spectacle  too  striking  not  to  fix  our  attention." 

EXTRACT     FROM     A     POEM 
TO    MR.    BLEECKER,    ON    HIS     PASSAGE    TO    NEW    YORK. 

METHINKS  I  see  the  broad  majestic  sheet 

Swell  to  the  wind;  the  flying  shores  retreat; 

I  see  the  banks,  with  varied  foliage  gay, 

Inhale  the  misty  sun's  reluctant  ray; 

The  lofty  groves  stripped  of  their  verdure,  rise 

To  the  inclemence  of  autumnal  skies. 

Rough  mountains  now  appear,  while  pendent  woods 

Hang  o'er  the  gloomy  steep,  and  shade  the  floods ; 

Slow  moves  the  vessel,  while  each  distant  sound 

The  caverned  echoes  doubly  loud  rebound; 

A   placid  stream  meanders  on  the  steep, 

Till  tumbling  from  the  cliff',  divides  the  frowning  deep. 

Oh !  tempt  not  fate  on  those  stupendous  rocks, 
Where  never  shepherd  led  his  timid  flocks  ; 
But  shagged  bears  in  those  wild  deserts  stray, 
And  wolves,  who  howl  against  the  lunar  ray  ; 
There  builds  the  ravenous  hawk  her  lofty  nest, 
And  there  the  soaring  eagle  takes  her  rest; 


28  ANN     ELIZA     BLEECKER. 

The  solitary  deer  recoils  to  hear 
The  torrent  thundering  in  the  midway  air. 
Ah  !  let  me  intercede,  —  ah  !  spare  her  breath, 
Nor  aim  the  tube  charged  with  a  leaden  death. 

But  now  advancing  to  the  opening  sea, 
The  wind  springs  up,  the  lessening  mountains  flee ; 
The  eastern  banks  are  crowned  with  rural  seats, 
And  nature's  work  the  hand  of  art  completes. 
Here  Philips'  villa,  where  Pomona  joins 
At  once  the  product  of  a  hundred  climes; 
Here,  tinged  by  Flora,  Asian  flowers  unfold 
Their  burnished  leaves  of  vegetable  gold. 
When  snows  descend,  and  clouds  tumultuous  fly 
Through  the  blue  medium  of  the  crystal  sky, 
Beneath  his  painted  mimic  heaven  he  roves 
Amidst  the  glass-encircled  citron  groves ; 
The  grape  and  luscious  fig  his  taste  invite, 
Hesperian  apples  glow  upon  his  sight; 
The  sweet  auriculas  their  bells  display, 
And  Philips  finds  in  January,  May. 
•     But  on   the  other  side  the  cliffs  arise, 
Cha  \bdis-l, ke,  and  seem  to  prop  the  skies  : 
How  oft  with  admiration  have  we  viewed 
Those  adamantine  barriers  of  the  flood ! 
Yet  still  the  vessel  cleaves  the  liquid  mead, 
Th^  prospect  dies,  the  aspiring  rocks  recede; 
New  objects  rush  upon  the  wondering  sight, 
Till  Phoebus  rolls  from  heaven  his  car  of  light, 
And  Cynthia's  silver  crescent  gilds  the  night. 

I  hear  the  melting  flute's  melodious  sound, 
Which  dying  zephyrs  waft  alternate  round, 
The  rocks  in  notes  responsive  soft  complain, 
And  think  Amphion  strikes  his  lyre  again. 
Ah !  'tis  my  Bleecker  breathes  our  mutual  loves, 
And  sends  the  trembling  airs  through  vocal  groves. 


ANN     ELIZA     BLEECKER.  29 

Thus  having  led  you  to  the  happy  isle, 
Where  waves  circumfluent  wash  the  fertile  soil, 
Whore  Hudson,  meeting  the  Atlantic,  roars, 
The  parting  lands  dismiss  him  from  their  shores, 
Indulge  the  enthusiast  muse  her  favourite  strain 
Of  panegyric,  due  to  Eboracia's  plain. 

There  is  no  land  where  heaven  her  blessings  pours 
In  such  abundance,  as  upon  these  shores ; 
With  influence  benign  the  planets  rise, 
Pure  is  the  ether,  and  serene  the  skies ; 
With  annual  gold,  kind  Ceres  decks  the  ground, 
And  gushing  springs  dispense  bland  health  around  ; 
No  lucid  gems  are  here,  or  flaming  ore, 
To  tempt  the  hand  of  avarice  and  power ; 
But  sun-burnt  labour,  with  diurnal  toil, 
Bids  treasures  rise  from   the  obedient  soil, 
And  commerce  calls  the  ships  across  the  main, 
Fo^rgoltl  exchanging  her  superfluous  grain; 
While  concord,  liberty,  and  jocund  health, 
Sport  with  young  pleasure  'mid  the  rural  wealth. 

AN     EVENING     PROSPECT. 

COME,  my  Susan,  quit  your  chamber, 

Greet  the  opening  bloom  of  May, 
Let  us  up  yon  hillock  clamber, 

And  around  the  scene  survey. 

See  the  sun  is  now  descending, 

And  projects  his  shadows  far, 
And  the  bee  her  course  is  bending 

Homeward   through   the  humid  air. 

Mark  the  lizard  just  before  us, 

Singing  her  unvaried  strain, 
While  the  frog  abrupt  in  chorus 

Deepens  through  the  marshy  plain. 


30  ANNELIZABLEECKER. 

From  yon  grove  the  woodcock  rises, 
Mark  her  progress  by  her  notes, 

High  in  air  her  wing  she  poises, 

Then  like  lightning  down  she  shoots. 

Now  the  whip-poor-will  beginning, 
Clamorous  on  a  pointed  rail, 

Drowns  the  more  melodious  singing 
Of  the  catbird,  thrush,  and  quail. 

Pensive  Echo  from  the  mountain 
Still  repeats  the  sylvan  sounds; 

And  the  crocus-bordered  fountain 
With  the  splendid  fly  abounds. 

There  the  honey-suckle  blooming, 
Reddens  the  capricious  wave; 

Richer  sweets,  the  air  perfuming, 
Spicy  Ceylon  never  gave. 

Cast  your  eyes  beyond  this  meadow, 
Painted  by  a  hand  divine, 

And  observe  the  ample  shadow 
Of  that  solemn  ridge  of  pine. 

Here  a  trickling  rill  depending, 

Glitters  through  the  artless  bower ; 

And  the  silver  dew  descending, 
Doubly  radiates  every  flower. 

While  I  speak,  the  sun  is  vanished, 
All  the  gilded  clouds  are  fled ; 

Music  from  the  groves  is  banish'd, 
Noxious  vapours  round  us  spread. 

Rural  toil  is  now  suspended, 

Sleep  invades  the  peasant's  eyes  ; 

Each  diurnal  task  is  ended, 

While  soft  Luna  climbs  the  skies. 


ANN     ELIZA     BLEECKER.  31 

Queen  of  rest  and  meditation  ! 

Through  thy  medium,  I  adore 
Him  —  the  Author  of  creation, 

Infinite  and  boundless  power! 

He  now  fills  thy  urn  with  glory, 

Transcript  of  immortal  light ; 
Lord !  my  spirit  bows  before  thee, 

Lost  in  wonder  and  delight. 


LINES     TO     GRIEF. 

COME  Grief,  and  sing  a  solemn  dirge 
Beneath  this  midnight  shade  ; 

From  central  darkness  now  emerge, 
And  tread  the  lonely  glade. 

This  is  the  cheerless  hour  of  night, 

For  sorrow  only  made ; 
When  no  intrusive  rays  of  light, 

The  silent  gloom  pervade. 

Though  such  the  darkness  of  my  soul, 
Not  such  the  calmness  there  ; 

But  waves  of  guilt  tumultuous  roll 
'Midst  billows  of  despair. 

Fallacious  Pleasure's  tinsel  train 
My  soul  rejects  with  scorn  ; 

If  higher  joys  she  can't  attain, 
She'd  rather  choose  to  mourn. 

For  bliss  superior  she  was  made  ; 

Or  for  extreme  despair ; 
If  pain  awaits  her  past  tho  dead, 

Why  should  she  triumph  here  ? 


32  ANN     ELIZA     BLEECKER. 

Tho'  Reason  points  at  good  supreme, 
Yet  Grace  must  lead  us  thence ; 

Must  wake  us  from  this  pleasing  dream, 
The  idle  joys  of  Sense. 

Surely  I  wish  the  blackest  night 

Of  Nature  to  remain, 
Till  Christ  arise  with  healing  light, 

Then  welcome  day  again. 


HYMN. 

(WRITTEN   IN   DESPONDENCY.) 

JESUS  CHRIST!  regard  my  anguish, 

Oh !  commiserate  my  pain  ; 
Bid  my  soul  no  longer  languish, 

Bid  my  spirit  not  complain. 

'Tis  my  comfort  thou 'rt  omniscient, 
All  my  griefs  are  known  to  thee, 

Saviour!  thou  art  all  sufficient, 
To  relieve  a  wretch  like  me. 

Now  thy  clemency  discover, 
Give  my  wounded  soul  repose, 

E'er  my  transient  life  is  over, 
E'er  my  sorrowing  eyelids  close. 

By  thy  passion  I  conjure  thee, 
By  thy  painful  sweat  of  blood, 

Let  my  sighing  come  before  thee, 
Seal  my  pardon  now  with  God. 

RETURN     TO     TOMHANICK. 

HAIL,  happy  shades  !  though  clad   with  heavy  snows, 
At  sight  of  you  with  joy  my  bosom  glows ; 


ANN     ELIZA     BLEECKEU.  33 

Ye  arching  pines,  that  how  with  every  breeze, 

Ye  poplars,  elms,  all  hail !  my  well-known  trees ! 

And  now  my  peaceful  mansion  strikes  my  eye, 

And  now  the  tinkling:  rivulet  I  spy; 

My  little  garden,  Flora,  hast  thou  kept, 

And  watch'd  my  pinks  and  lilies,  while  I  wept? 

Or  has  the  grubbing  swine,  by  furies  led, 

The  enclosure  broke,  and  on  my  flowrets  fed  ? 

All  me !  that  spot  with  blooms  so  lately  grac'd, 

Witli  storms  and  driving  snows,  is  now  defaced ; 

Sharp  icicles  from  every  bush  depend, 

And  frosts  all  dazzling  o'er  the  beds  extend  : 

Yet  soon  fair  spring  shall  give  another  scene, 

And  yellow  cowslips  gild  the  level  green; 

My  little  orchard  sprouting  at  each  bough, 

Fragrant  with  clustering  blossoms  deep  sball  glow  : 

Ah  !  then  't  is  sweet  the  tufted  grass  to  tread, 

But  sweeter  slumbering  is  the  balmy  shade; 

The  rapid  humming-bird,   with  ruby  breast, 

Seeks  the  parterre  with  early  blue-bells  drest, 

Drinks  deep  the  honeysuckle  dew,  or  drives 

The  labouring  bee  to  her  domestic  hives  : 

Then  shines  the  lupine  bright  with  morning  gems, 

And   sleepy  poppies  nod  upon  their  steins ; 

The  humble  violet,  and  the  dulcet  rose, 

The  stately  lily  then,  and  tulip  blows. 

Farewell,  my  Plutarch  !  farewell,  pen  and  muse ! 
Nature  exults  —  shall  I  her  call  refuse  ? 
Apollo  fervid  glitters  in  my  face, 
And   threatens   with   his  beam   ea^h   fe:>ble  grace  : 

G 

Yet  still  aroup.d   the  lovely  plants   I   toil, 
And  draw  obnoxious  herbage  from  the  soil ; 
Or  with  the  lime-twigs  little  birds  surprise; 
Or  angle  for  the  trout  of  many  dyes. 
c 


34  MARGARETTA     V.     FAUGERES. 

But  when  the  vernal  breezes  pass  away, 
And  loftier  Phoebus  darts  a  fiercer  ray, 
The  spiky  corn  then  rattles  all  around, 
And  dashing  cascades  give  a  pleasing  sound; 
Shrill  sings  the  locust  with  prolonged  note, 
The  cricket  chirps  familiar  in  each  cot. 
The  village  children,  rambling  o'er  yon  hill, 
With  berries  all  their  painted  baskets  fill. 
They  rob  the  squirrel's  little  walnut  store, 
And  climb  the  half-exhausted  tree  for  more; 
Or  else  to  fields  of  maze  nocturnal  hie, 
Where  hid,  the  elusive  water-melons  lie ; 
Sportive,  they  make  incisions  in  the  rind, 
The  riper  from  the  immature  to  find; 
Then  load  their  tender  shoulders  with  the  prey, 
And  laughing,  bear  the  bulky  fruit  away. 


MARGARETTA  V.  FAUGERES, 

DAUGHTER  of  Mrs.  Bleecker.  Her  poems  were  published  in  the  same 
volume  with  those  of  her  mother;  but  far  exceed  them  in  force  of 
expression,  and  originality  of  thought. 


THE     HUDSON. 

NILE'S  beauteous  waves,  and  Tiber's  swelling  tide 

Have  been  recorded  by  the  hand  of  Fame, 
And  various  floods,  which  through  earth's  channels  glide, 

From  some  enraptured  bard  have  gained  a  name; 
E'en  Thames  and  Wye  have  been  the  poet's  theme; 

And  to  their  charms  hath  many  a  harp  been  strung ; 
Whilst  oh !  hoar  genius  of  old  Hudson's  stream, 

Thy  mighty  river  never  hath  been  sung  ! 


MARGARETTA    V.    F  A  U  G  E  R  E  S  .  35 

Say,  shall  a  female  string  her  trembling  lyre, 
And  to  thy  praise  devote  the  adventurous  song? 

Fired  with  the  theme,  her  genius  shall  aspire, 
And  the  notes  sweeten  as  they  float  along. 

Where  rougli  Ontario's  restless  waters  roar, 

And  hoarsely  rave  around  the  rocky  shore; 

Where  their  abode  tremendous  north  winds  make, 

And  reign  the  tyrants  of  the  surging  lake; 

There,  as  the  shell-crown'd  genii  of  its  caves, 

Toward  proud  Lawrence,  urged  their  noisy  waves, 

A  form  majestic  from  the  flood  arose ; 

A  coral  bandage  sparkled  o'er  his  brows, 

A  purple  mantle  o'er  his  limbs  was  spread, 

And  sportive  breezes  in  his  dark  locks  played; 

Toward  the  east  shore  his  anxious  eyes  he  cast, 

And  from  his  ruby  lips  these  accents  passed; 

"O  favoured  land!  indulgent  nature  yields 

Her  choicest  sweets  to  deck  thy  boundless  fields; 

Where  in  thy  verdant  glooms  the  fleet  deer  play, 

And  the  hale  tenants  of  the  desert  stray, 

While  the  tall  evergreens  that  edge  the  dale, 

In  silent  majesty  nod  to  each  gale  : 

Thy  riches  shall  no  more  remain  unknown, 

Thy  wide  campaign  do  I  pronounce  my  own; 

And  while  the  strong  armed  genii  of  this  lake 

Their  tributary  streams  to  Lawrence  take, 

Back  from  its  source  my  current  will  I  turn, 

And  o'er  thy  meadows  pour  my  copious  urn." 

He  said,  and,  waving  high  his  dripping  hand, 

Bade  his  clear  waters  roll  toward  the  land. 

Glad  they  obeyed,  and  struggling  to  the  shore, 

Dashed  on  its  broken  rocks  with  thundering  roar; 

The  rocks  in  vain  oppose  their  furious  course ; 

From  each  repulse  they  rise  with  tenfold  force; 

And  gathering  all  their  angry  powers  again, 

Gush'd  o'er  the  banks,  and  fled  across  the  plain. 


36  MARGARETTA    V.    FAUGERES. 

Soon  as  the  waves  had  pressed  the  level  mead, 
Full  many  a  pearly-footed  Naiad  fair, 
With  hasty  steps,  her  limpid  fountain  led, 
To  swell  the  tide,  and  hail  it  welcome  there; 
Their  busy  hands  collect  a  thousand  flowers, 
And  scatter  them  along  the  grassy  shores, 
There,  bending  low,  the  water-lilies  bloom, 
And  the  blue  crocus  shed  their  moist  perfume; 
There  the  tall  velvet  scarlet  lark-spur,  laves 
Her  pale  green  stem  in  the  pellucid  waves ; 
There  nods  the  fragile  columbine,  so  fair, 
And  the  mild  dewy  wild-rose  scents  the  air ; 
While  round  the  trunk  of  some  majestic  pine 
The  blushing  honey-suckle's  branches  twine; 
There  too  Pomona's  richest  gifts  are  found, 
Her  golden  melons  press  the  fruitful  ground; 
The  glossy  crimson  plums  there  swell  their  rinds, 
And  purple  grapes  dance  to  autumnal  winds; 
While  all  beneath  the  mandrake's  fragrant  shade, 
The  strawberry's  delicious  sweets  are  laid. 

***** 
Through  many  a  "blooming  wild" .and  woodland  green, 

The  Hudson's  sleeping  waters  winding  stray, 
Now  'mongst  the  hills  its  silvery  waves  are  seen, 

And  now  through  arching  willows  steal  away : 
Then  bursting  on  the  enamoured  sight  once  more, 

Gladden  some  happy  peasant's  rude  retreat, 
And  passing  youthful  Troy's  commercial  shore, 

With  the  hoarse  Mohawk's  roaring  surges  meet. 
Oh !  beauteous  Mohawk !  wildered  with  thy  charms, 

The  chilliest  heart  sinks  into  rapturous  glows; 
While  the  stern  warrior,  used  to  loud  alarms, 

Starts  at  the  thunderings  of  thy  dread  Cohoes ! 
Now  more  majestic  rolls  the  ample  tide, 

Tall  waving  elms  its  clovery  borders  shade, 


MARGARETTA     V.     FAUGERES.  37 

And  many  a  stately  dome,  in  ancient  pride 

And  hoary  grandeur,  there  exalts  its  head. 
There  trace  the  marks  of  culture's  sunburnt  hand, 

The  honey'd  buck-wheat's  clustering  blossoms  view, 
Dripping  rich  odours,  mark  the  beard-grain  bland, 

The  loaded  orchard,  and  the  flax-field  blue. 
Albania's  gothic  spires  now  greet  the  eye ; 

Time's  hand  hath  wiped  their  burnish'd  tints  away, 
And  the  rich  fanes  which  sparkled  to  the  sky, 

'Reft  of  their  splendours,  mourn  in  cheerless  grey. 

Low  sunk  between  the  Alleganian  hills, 

For  many  a  league  the  sullen  waters  glide, 

And  the  deep  murmur  of  the  crowded  tide, 
With  pleasing  awe  the  wondering  voyager  fills. 
On  the  green  summit  of  yon  lofty  clift, 

A  peaceful  runnel  gurgles  clear  and  slow, 
Then  down  the  craggy  steep-side  dashing  swift, 

Tremendous  falls  in  the  white  surge  below. 
Here  spreads  a  clovery  lawn  its  verdure  far, 

Around  it  mountains  vast  their  forests  rear, 
And  long  ere  day  hath  left  his  burnish'd  car, 

The  dews  of  night  have  shed  their  odours  there. 
There  hangs  a  lowering  rock  across  the  deep  ; 

Hoarse  roar  the  waves  its  broken  base  around ; 
Through  its  dark  caverns  noisy  whirlwinds  sweep, 

While  Horror  startles  at  the  fearful  sound. 
The  shivering  sails  that  cut  the  fluttering  breeze, 

Glide  through  these  winding  rocks  with  airy  sweeps, 
Beneath  the  cooling  glooms  of  waving  trees, 

And  sloping  pastures  speck'd  with  fleecy  sheep. 

A     VERSION     OF     PART     OF     THE      SEVENTH 
CHAPTER     OF     JOB. 

As  sighs  the  labourer  for  the  cooling  shade, 
When  glowing  sunbeams  scorch  the  verdant  blade; 
4 


38  MARGARETTA     V.     FAUGERES. 

Or  as  the  hireling  waits  the  scanty  sum, 

By  the  hard  hand  of  painful  labour  won ; 

So  waits  my  spirit  with  anxiety, 

Death's  calm  approach  from  woe  to  set  me  free; 

For  oh  !  my  days  are  spent  in  vanity, 

And  nights  of  sorrow  are  appointed  me  f 

I  love  not  life,  it  is  a  burden  grown ; 

Distress  and  Care  have  claimed  me  for  their  own, 

And  pale  Disease,  with  unrelenting  hand, 

Sports  with  my  sighs  and  casts  them  to  the  wind. 

In  vain  doth  night  return  to  bless  these  eyes, 

Sighing  I  say,  Oh !  when  shall  I  arise  ? 

When  will, the  night  be  gone?     Convulsed  with  pain, 

I  raise  my  eyes  to  heaven  for  aid  in  vain  j 

My  heart  grows  faint,  and  tossing  to  and  fro 

I  waste  the  lonely  hours  in  sullen  woe. 

Or  if  indeed  my  eyes  should  chance  to  close  — 

And  weary  nature  gain  a  slight  repose, 

Then  am  I  scared  with  terrifying  dreams, 

Wild  shrieks  I  hear,  and  melancholy  screams; 

While  hideous  shapes  crowd  on  my  troubled  sight, 

Adding  new  terrors  to  the  gloom  of  night. 

Oh !  I  'm  forlorn,  in  bitterness  of  soul 

My  cries  burst  forth,  like  floods  my  sorrows  roll! 

Forgot,  abandoned,  destitute,  alone, 

No  pitying  ear  inhales  the  heart-wrung  groan; 

No  friendly  converse  my  sad  spirit  cheers, 

No  feeling  breast  receives  my  bitter  tears; 

Gone  is  each  comfort,  —  hope  itself  is  fled, — 

O  that  I  rested  with  the  quiet  dead ! 

No  glimpse  of  good  mine  eyes  again  shall  see, 

"Let  me  alone  —  my  days  are  vanity!" 


PHILLIS     WHEATLEY. 


ON     A     PAINTER 


39 


WHEN  Laura  appeared,  poor  Apelles  complain' d 

That  his  sight  was  bedimm'd,  and  his  optics  much  pain'd ; 

So  his  pallet  and  pencil  the  artist  resign'd, 

Lest  the  blaze  of  her  beauty  should  make  him  quite  blind. 

But  when  fair  Anne  enter'd,  the  prospect  was  changed, 

The  paints  and  the  brushes  in  order  were  ranged; 

The  artist  resumed  his  employment  again, 

Forgetful  of  labour,  and  blindness,  and  pain  ; 

And  the  strokes  were  so  lively  that  all  were  assured 

What  the  brunette  had  injured  the  fair  one  had  cured. 

Let  the  candid  decide  which  the  chaplet  should  wear, 

The  charms  which    destroy,  or  the  charms  which  repair. 


PHILLIS  WHEATLEY 

MAY  be  regarded  as  a  literary  curiosity.  She  made  so  great  a  sen 
sation  in  her  "time,  that  we  must  not  omit  a  notice  of  her  in  our  history 
of  American  female  poetry;  although  the  specimens  we  give  of  her 
talents  may  not  be  considered  so  wonderful  as  the  sensation  they 
caused  Phillis  was  stolen  from  Africa,  at  seven  or  eight  years  of 
age  carried  to  America,  and  sold  in  1761,  to  John  Wheatley,  a  rich 
merch-mt  in  Boston.  She  was  so  much  loved  by  his  family,  for  her 
amiablp,  modest  manners,  her  exquisite  sensibility,  and  "extraordinary 
talents  "  that  she  was  not  only  released  from  the  labours  usually  devolv- 
incr  on  slaves,  but  entirely  free  also  from  the  cares  of  the  household. 
The  literary  charters  of  the  day  paid  her  much  attention,  supphe 
her  with  books,  and  encouraged  with  warm  approbation  all  her  11 
lectual  efforts;  while  the  best  society  of  Boston  received  her  as  an 
e  ,,nl  Shp  was  not  only  devoted  to  reading,  and  diligent  in  the  study 
of  the  scriptures,  but  she  made  rapid  proficiency  in  all  learning;  under- 
stood  Latin,  and  commenced  a  translation,  which  was  said  to  be  very 
creditably  done,  of  one  of  Ovid's  tales.  In  177-  when  only  nineteen, 
she  published  a  volume  of  Poems  on  various  subjects,  moral  and  , 


40  PHILLISWHEATLEY. 

gious ;  which  ran  through  several  editions  in  England,  and  in  the 
United  States.  It  was  in  England  that  they  were  first  given  to  the 
world.  Phillis  was  taken  there  on  account  of  her  health,  which,  al 
ways  delicate,  became  at  this  time  so  feeble  as  to  alarm  her  friends.  In 
1775,  she  received  her  freedom,  and  two  years  afterwards  she  married 
a  man  of  colour,  who,  in  the  superiority  of  his  understanding,  was  also 
a  kind  of  phenomenon.  At  first  a  grocer,  in  which  business  he  failed, 
he  ambitiously  became  a  lawyer,  and  under  the  name  of  Dr.  Peter, 
pleaded  the  cause  of  the  negroes,  before  judiciary  tribunals.  The  repu 
tation  he  enjoyed  procured  him  a  fortune.  He  was,  however,  proud 
and  indolent,  and  brought  a  good  deal  of  unhappiness  upon  poor  Phillis. 
Unfortunately,  she  had  been  a  spoiled  and  petted  child,  and  could  not 
bear  to  turn  her  thoughts  to  household  duties.  Her  husband  required 
of  her  more  than  she  could  perform.  At  first  he  reproached,  afterwards 
rebuked,  and  at  last  so  harshly  and  cruelly  distressed  her,  that  she  could 
bear  it  no  longer,  but  died  in  1780,  literally  of  a  broken  heart.  Peace 
be  to  her  memory !  Doubtless  she  has  proved  long  ago  the  truth  of  her 
own  spirited  couplet, 

Remember  Christians,  negroes,  black  as  Cain, 
May  be  refined,  and  join  the  angelic  train  ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN  OF  GREAT  PROMISE. 

WHO  taught  thee  conflict  with  the  powers  of  night, 
To  vanquish  Satan  in  the  fields  of  fight! 
Who  strung  thy  feeble  arms  with  might  unknown  ? 
How  great  thy  conquest,  and  how  bright  thy  crown  ! 
War  with  each  princedom,  throne,  and  power,  is  o'er ; 
The  scene  is  ended,  to  return  no  more. 
Oh,  could  my  muse  thy  seat  on  high  behold, 
How  decked  with  laurel,  and  enriched  with  gold  f 
Oh,  could  she  hear  what  praise  thy  harp  employs, 
How  sweet  thy  anthems,  how  divine  thy  joys; 
What  heavenly  grandeur  should  exalt  her  strain! 
What  lively  raptures  in  her  members  reign! 
To  soothe  the  troubles  of  the  mind  to  peace, 
To  still  the  tumult  of  life's  tossing  seas, 


PHILLISWHEATLEY.  41 

To  ease  the  anguish  of  the  parent's  heart, 
What  shall  my  sympathizing  verse  impart  ? 
Where  is  the  balm  to  heal  so  deep  a  wound  ? 
Where  shall  a  sovereign  remedy  be  found  ? 
Look,  gracious  Spirit !  from  thy  heavenly  bower, 
And  thy  full  joys  into  their  bosoms  pour; 
The  raging  tempest  of  their  griefs  control, 
And  spread  the  dawn  of  glory  through  the  soul ! 


SLEEP. 

(FROM  A  POEM   ON  THE  PROVIDENCE  OF   GOD.) 

As  reason's  powers  by  day  our  God  disclose, 

So  may  we  trace  him  in  the  night's  repose. 

Say,  what  is  sleep  ?  and  dreams,  how  passing  strange ! 

When  action  ceases,  and  ideas  range 

Licentious  and  unbounded  o'er  the  plains, 

WThere  fancy's  queen  in  giddy  triumph  reigns. 

Hear  in  soft  strains  the  dreaming  lover  sigh 

To  a  kind  fair,  or  rave  in  jealousy; 

On  pleasure  now,  and  now  on  vengeance  bent, 

The  labouring  passions  struggle  for  a  vent. 

What  power,  oh  man!  thy  reason  then  restores, 

So  long  suspended  in  nocturnal  hours  ? 

What  secret  hand  returns  the  mental  train, 

And  gives  improved  thine  active  powers  again  ? 

From  thee,  oh  man  !  what  gratitude  should  rise  ? 

And  when  from  balmy  sleep  thou  op'st  thine  eyes, 

Let  thy  first  thoughts  be  praises  to  the  skies. 

How  merciful  our  God,  who  thus  imparts 

O'erflowing  tides  of  joy  to  human  hearts, 

When  wants  and  woes  might  be  our  righteous  lot, 

Our  God  forgetting,  by  our  God  forgot! 


MERCY  WARREN. 

MRS.  WARREN  was  the  daughter  of  James  Otis,  of  Barnstable,  and  the 
wife  of  General  James  Warren  of  Plymouth,  both  of  whom  were  cele 
brated  in  the  political  history  of  Massachusetts.  She  was  a  skilful  and 
industrious  writer  both  of  prose  and  verse ;  attempting  and  achiev 
ing  great  subjects,  with  a  boldness  and  ease  that  prove  her  mind  to  have 
been  of  no  ordinary  stamp.  The  station  and  character  of  her  father 
and  husband,  procured  her  a  wide  acquaintance  with  the  greatest  men 
of  her  time;  not  only  those  distinguished  for  their  practical  patriotism 
in  the  revolutionary  war,  but  those  who  were  famous  for  their  learning 
and  talent.  She  well  knew  how  to  appreciate  the  honour,  and  improve 
the  advantage,  of  such  a  noble  acquaintance;  a  proof  of  which,  is  her 
History  of  the  American  Revolution.  Before  this,  however,  her  talents 
as  an  author  were  made  extensively  known  by  two  political  works  from 
her  bold  pen, —  The  Adulator,  and  The  Group.  In  1790,  she  published 
a  volume  of  Poems,  containing  two  tragedies,  The  Sack  of  Rome, 
and  The  Ladies  of  Castile,  with  several  Miscellaneous  Pieces.  She 
died  in  1814. 


EXTRACT     FROM     A     POLITICAL     REVERIE. 

(JANUARY     1774.) 

LET  Grecian  bards,  and  Roman  poets  tell, 
How  Hector  fought,  and  how  old  Priam  fell ; 
Paint  armies  ravaging  the  Ilian  coast, 
Show  fields  of  blood,  and  mighty  battles  lost; 
Let  mad  Cassandra  with  dishevelled  hair, 
With  streaming  eyes,  arid  frantic  bosom  bare, 
Tell  dark  presages,  and  ill-boding  dreams, 
Of  murder,  rapine,  and  the  solemn  themes 
Of  slaughter'd  cities,  and  their  sinking  spires, 
By  Grecian  rage  wrapp'd  in  avenging  fires ; 

(42) 


MERCYWARREN.  43 

To  bolder  pens  I  leave  the  tragic  tale, 
While  some  kind  muse  from  Tempe's  gentle  vale, 
With  softer  symphony  shall  touch  the  string, 
And  happier  tidings  from  Parnassus  bring. 

Not  Ca?sar's  name,  nor  Philip's  bolder  son, 
Who  sigh'd  and  wept,  when  he'd  one  world  undone; 
Who  dropp'd  a  tear,  though  not  from  pity's  source, 
But  grief,  to  find  some  bound  to  brutal  force, 
Shall  tune  my  harp,  or  touch  the  warbling  string; 
No  bold  destroyer  of  mankind  I  sing; 
These  plunderers  of  men  I  greatly  scorn, 
And  dream  of  nations,  empires  yet  unborn, 

I  look  with  rapture  at  the  distant  dawn, 
And  view  the  glories  of  the  opening  morn; 
When  justice  holds  his  sceptre  o'er  the  land, 
And  rescues  freedom  from  a  tyrant's  hand; 
When  patriot  states  in  laurel  crowns  may  rise, 
And  ancient  kingdoms  court  them  as  allies  ; 
Glory  and  valour  shall  be  here  display'd, 
And  virtue  rear  her  long  dejected  head; 
Her  standard  plant  beneath  these  gladden'd  skies, 
Her  fame  extend,  and  arts  and  science  rise; 
While  Empire's  lofty  spreading  sails  unfurl'd, 
Roll  swiftly  on  towards  the  western  world! 
Long  she's  forsook  her  Asiatic  throne, 
And  leaving  Afric's  barb'rous  burning  zone, 
On  the  broad  ruins  of  Rome's  haughty  power, 
Erected  ramparts  round  fair  Europe's  shore; 
But  in  those  blasted  climes  no  more  presides, 
She  o'er  the  vast  Atlantic  surges  rides, 
Visits  Columbia's  distant  fertile  plains, 
Where  Liberty,  a  happy  goddess,  reigns. 


44  MERCYWARREN. 

No  despot  here  shall  rule  with  awful  sway, 

Nor  orphan's  spoils  become  the  minion's  prey ; 

No  more  the  widow'd  bleeding  bosom  mourns, 

Nor  injured  cities  weep  their  slaughter'd  sons; 

For  then  each  tyrant,  by  the  hand  of  fate, 

And  standing  troops,  the  bane  of  every  state, 

For  ever  spurn'd,  shall  be  removed  as  far 

As  bright  Hesperus  from  the  polar  star; 

Freedom  and  virtue  shall  united  reign, 

And  stretch  their  empire  o'er  the  wide  domain  ; 

On  a  broad  base  the  commonwealth  shall  stand, 

When  lawless  power  withdraws  its  impious  hand, 

When  crowns  and  sceptres  are  grown  useless  things, 

Nor  petty  prators  plunder  here  for  kings. 

Then  bless'd  Religion  in  her  purest  forms, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  persecuting  storms, 
In  purest  azure  gracefully  arranged, 
In  native  majesty  shall  stand  display'd. 
Till  courts  revere  her  ever  sacred  shrine, 
And  nobles  feel  her  influence  divine; 
Princes  and  peasants  catcli  the  glorious  flame, 
And  lisping  infants  praise  Jehovah's  name! 


TO     AN     AMIABLE     FRIEND     MOURNING     THE 
DEATH     OF     AN     EXCELLENT     FATHER. 

LET  deep  dejection  hide  her  pallid  face, 
And  from  thy  breast  each  painful  image  rase; 
Forbid  thy  lip  to  utter  one  complaint, 
But  view  the  glories  of  the  rising  saint, 
Ripe  for  a  crown,  and  waiting  the  reward 
Of  watching  long  the  vineyard  of  the  Lord. 

The  generous  purpose  of  his  zealous  heart, 
Truth  to  enforce,  and  knowledge  to  impart, 


MERCY    WARREN.  45 

Insures  his  welcome  on  the  unknown  shore, 
Where  choirs  of  saints,  and  angel  forms  adore. 
A  seraph  met  him  on  the  trackless  way, 
And  strung  his  harp  to  join  the  heavenly  lay. 

Complain  no  more  of  Death's  extensive  power, 
Whose  sceptre  wafts  us  to  some  blissful  shore; 
Where  the  rough  billows  that  roll  o'er  the  head, 
That  shake  the  frame,  and  fill  the  mind  with  dread, 
Are  hush'd  in  silence,  and  the  soul  serene 
Looks  back  delighted  on  the  closing  scene. 

Happy,  thrice  happy,  that  exalted  mind, 

Who,  leaving  earth  and  all  its  cares  behind, 

Has  not  a  wish  to  ruffle  or  control 

The  equal  temper  of  his  tranquil  soul, 

Who,  on  a  retrospect,  is  safe  within; 

No  private  passion,  nor  a  darling  sin, 

Can  check  his  hope,  when  death's  insatiate  povv'r, 

Stands  hovering  on  the  last  decisive  hour. 

Then  weep  no  more,  my  friend,  but  all  resigned, 

Submit  thy  will  to  the  Eternal  Mind, 

Who  watches  o'er  the  movements  of  the  just, 

And  will  again  reanimate  the  dust ! 

Thy  sire  commands,  suppress  the  rising  sigh, 

He  wipes  the  tear  from  thy  too  filial  eye, 

And  bids  thee  contemplate  a  soul  set  free, 

Just  safe  escaped  from  life's  tempestuous  sea. 


SARAH  PORTER 

Published  at  Concord  in  1791,  a  small  volume  containing  The  Royal 
Penitent,  and  David's  lamentation  over  Saul  and  Jonathan.  The  ex 
tract  we  give  is  from  the  first  of  these  poems,  where  David's  remorse 
for  his  sin  is  awakened  by  sorrow  for  the  death  of  his  child. 

THE     ROYAL     PENITENT'S     SELF-IMPRECATION. 

ACCURSED  for  ever  be  the  hated  day, 

That  led  my  soul  from  innocence  astray  ; 

O  may  the  stars  on  that  detested  hour 

Shed  all  their  influence  with  malignant  power; 

Darkness  and  sorrow  jointly  hold  their  reign, 

When  time,  revolving,  brings  it  round  again ! 

Ye  injured  ghosts  !  break  from  the  silent  tomb, 

In  all  the  fearful  pomp  of  horror  come, 

Breathe  out  your  woes,  and  hail  the  dreadful  gloom ! 

Why  does  not  injured  Israel  now  arise, 

Proclaim  my  madness  to  the  avenging  skies, 

Hurl  quick  the  sceptre  from  my  bloody  hand, 

While  marks  of  infamy  my  forehead  brand  ? 

No  time  shall  e'er  the  dreadful  act  conceal  — 

No  tongue  shall  fail  its  horrors  to  reveal ; 

Eternity  upon  its  strongest  wing, 

Shall  bear  the  deed  whence  all  my  sorrows  spring. 

GRANDEUR     FAILS     TO     GIVE     CONTENT. 

.A   GLITTERING  crown  !  thou  poor  fantastic  thing! 
What  solid  satisfaction  canst  thou  bring  ? 
Once,  far  removed  from  all  the  toils  of  state, 
In  groves  I  slept,  —  no  guards  around  me  wait; 

(46) 


SARAHPORTER.  47 

Oh  !  how  delicious  was  the  calm  retreat ! 
Sweet  groves !  with  birds  and  various  flowers  stored, 
Where  nature  furnished  out  my  frugal  board; 
The  pure  and  unstained  spring  my  thirst  allayed ; 
No  poisoned  draught,  in  golden  cups  conveyed, 
Was  there  to  dread !     Return,  ye  happy  hours, 
Ye  verdant  shades,  kind  nature's  pleasing  bowers  — 
Inglorious  solitude,  again  return, 
And  heal  the  breast  with  pain  and  anguish  torn ! 

Oh,  sweet  content !  unknown  to  pomp  and  kings, 
The  humble  rest  beneath  thy  downy  wings  •, 
The  lowly  cottage  is  thy  loved  retreat, — 
In  vain,  thou  'rt  courted  by  the  rich  and  great;  — 
In  vain,  the  miser  seeks  thee  in  his  gold  — 
In  vain,  each  day  the  glittering  store  is  told ; 
Thou  art  not  there ;  in  vain  the  ambitious  sigh, 
And  seek  the  joys  that  still  before  them  fly  ! 
The  merchant's  ship  all  treasure  brings  but  thee, — 
You  from  his  anxious  bosom  ever  flee ; 
For  thee,  the  sailor  tempts  the  boist'rous  main, 
And  hopes  to  find  thee  in  his  dear-bought  gain  ; 
For  thee,  the  hero  mounts  his  iron  car, 
And  hopes  to  find  thee  when  returned  from  war. 
Their  hopes  are  vain  :   who  wish  with  thee  to  dwell 
Must  seek  the  rural  shade,  or  lonely  cell ; 
The  gods  themselves  delight  in  verdant  groves, 
And  shield  from  harm  the  innocence  they  love. 


SARAH  WENTWORTH  MORTON. 


ABOUT  fifty  years  ago,  when  authoresses  were  not  so  numerous  as 
they  now  are,  this  lady  was  ranked  among  the  first  American  female 
writers.  She  published  her  verses  under  the  name  of  Phtienia,  and, 
during  the  early  part  of  her  life,  wrote  very  industriously.  In  1823, 
she  sent  forth  her  only  volume,  called  My  mind  and  its  Thoughts,  a 
collection  of  articles  in  prose  and  verse.  Mrs.  Morton  was  born  in 
Boston.  Her  husband  was  the  Hon.  Percy  Morton,  Attorney  General  of 
Massachusetts. 


THE     AFRICAN     CHIEF. 

See  how  the  black  ship  cleaves  the  main, 
High  bounding  o'er  the  dark  blue  wave, 

Remurmuring  with  the  groans  of  pain, 
Deep  freighted  with  the  princely  slave! 

Did  all  the  gods  of  Afric  sleep, 

Forgetful  of  their  guardian  love, 
When  the  white  tyrants  of  the  deep, 

Betray'd  him  in  the  palmy  grove? 

A  chief  of  Gambia's  golden  shore, 

Whose  arm  the  band  of  warriors  led; 

Or  more  —  the  lord  of  generous  power, 
By  whom  the  foodless  poor  were  fed. 

Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry, 

"Claim  the  first  right  that  nature  gave, 

From  the  red  scourge  of  bondage  fly, 
Nor  deign  to  live  a  burden'd  slave  ?" 

(48) 


SARAH  WENTWORTH  MORTON.        49 

Has  not  his  suffering  offspring  clung, 
Desponding,  round  his  fetter'd  knee  ; 

On  his  worn  shoulder,  weeping  hung, 
And  urged  one  effort  to  be  free  ? 

His  wife  by  nameless  wrongs  subdued, 
His  bosom's  friend  to  death  resign'd ; 

The  flinty  path-way  drench'd  in  blood; 
He  saw  with  cold  and  frenzied  mind. 

Strong  in  despair,  he  sought  the  plain, 
To  heaven  was  raised  his  steadfast  eye, 

Resolved  to  burst  the  crushing  chain, 
Or  'mid  the  battle's  blast,  to  die. 

First  of  his  race,  he  led  the  band, 

Guardless  of  danger,  hurtling  round, 
Till  by  his  red  avenging  hand, 

Full  many  a  despot  stained  the  ground. 

When  erst  Atessenia's  son:-'  oppress'd, 

Flew  desparate  to  the  sanguine  field, 
With  iron  clothed  each   injured  breast, 

And  saw  the  cruel  Spartan  yield, 

Did  not  the  soul  to  heaven  allied, 

With  the  proud  heart  as  greatly  swell, 

As  when  the  Roman  Decius  died, 
Or  when  the  Grecian  victim  fell  ? 

Do  later  deeds  quick  rapture  raise, 

The  boon  Batavia's   William   won, 
Paoli's  time-enduring  praise, 

Or  the  yet  greater  Washington  ? 

If  these  exalt  thy  sacred  zeal, 

To  hate  oppression's  mad  control, 
For  bleeding  Afric  learn  to  feel, 

Whose  chieftain  claimed  a  kindred  soul. 

g  D 


50  MRS.     LITTLE. 

Oh !  mourn  the  last  disastrous  hour, 
Lift  the  full  eye  of  bootless  grief, 

While  victory  treads  the  sultry  shore, 
And  tears  from  hope  the  captive  chief. 

While  the  hard  race  of  pallid  hue, 
Unpractised  in  the  power  to  feel, 

Resign  him  to  the  murderous  crew, 
The  horrors  of  the  quivering  wheel. 

Let  sorrow  bathe  each  blushing  cheek, 
Bend  piteous  o'er  the  tortured  slave, 

Whose  wrongs  compassion  cannot  speak, 
Whose  only  refuge  was  the  grave. 


MRS.  LITTLE 

WAS  a  native  of  Rhode  Island,  and  a  daughter  of  the  Hon.  Ashur 
Robbins  of  Massachusetts.  She  wrote  under  the  signature  of  Rowena, 
some  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago.  The  poem  we  give  at  length  is  one 
full  of  poetical  excellence;  although  without  any  pretensions  to  depth 
of  thought,  or  brilliancy  of  imagination.  It  is  a  sketch  from  nature, 
easily,  truthfully,  happily  drawn.  Yet  not  a  sketch  only  may  it  be 
called;  for  there  are  many  pictures,  of  domestic  comfort,  health,  happi 
ness,  and  contentment,  most  refreshing  to  contemplate,  in  these  charm 
ing  lines  on  New  England's  favourite  festival  day. 


THANKSGIVING. 

IT  is  thanksgiving  morn  —  'tis  cold  and  clear; 

The  bells  for  church  ring  forth  a  merry  sound; 
The  maidens  in  their  gaudy  winter  gear, 

Rival  the  many-tinted  woods  around ; 


J 


MRS.     LITTLE.  51 

The  rosy  children  skip  along  the  ground, 
Save  where  the  matron  reins  their  eager  pace, 

Pointing  to  him,  who,  with  a  look  profound, 
Moves  with  his  •  people'  toward  the  sacred  place, 
Where  duly  he  bestows  the  manna  crumbs  of  grace. 

Of  the  deep  learning  in  the  schools  of  yore 

The  reverend  pastor  hath  a  golden  stock : 
Yet,  with  a  vain  display  of  useless  lore 

Or  sapless  doctrine,  never  will  he  mock 

The  better  cravings  of  his  simple  flock ; 
But  faithfully  their  humble  shepherd  guides 

Where  streams  eternal  gush  from  Calvary's  rock; 
For  well  he  knows,  not  learning's  purest  tides 
Can  quench  the  immortal  thirst  that  in  the  soul  abides. 

The  anthem  swells ;  the  heart's  high  thanks  are  given : 

Then,  mildly  as  the  dews  on  Hermon  fall, 
Begins  the  holy  minister  of  heaven. 

And  though  not  his  the  burning  zeal  of  Paul, 

Yet  a  persuasive  power  is  in  his  call ; 
So  earnest,  yet  so  kindly,  is  his  mood. 

So  tenderly  he  longs  to  save  them  all, 
No  bird  more  fondly  flutters  o'er  her  brood, 
When  the  dark  vulture  screams  above  their  native  wood. 

"For  all  his  bounties,  dearest  charge,"  he  cries, 

"  Your  hearts  are  the  best  thanks  ;  no  more  refrain ; 

Your  yielded  hearts  he  asks  in  sacrifice, 
Almighty  lover!  shall  thou  love  in  vain, 
And  vainly  woo  thy  wand'rers  home  again  ? 

How  thy  soft  mercy  with  the  sinner  pleads! 
Behold!  thy  harvest  loads  the  ample  plain; 

And  the  same  goodness  lives  in  all  thy  deeds, 

From  the  least  drop  of  rain,  to  those  that  Jesus  bleeds." 


52  MR  S  .     L  I  TTL  E  . 

Much  more  he  spake,  with  growing  ardour  fired ; 

Oh  !  that  my  lay  were  worthy  to  record 
The  moving  eloquence  his  theme  inspired ! 

For,  like  a  free  and  copious  stream,  out-poured 

His  love  to  man,  and  man's  indulgent  Lord. 
All  were  subdued  ;  the  stoutest,  sternest  men, 

Heart-melted,  hung  on  every  precious  word : 
And  as  he  uttered  forth  his  full  amen, 
A  thousand  mingling  sobs  re-echoed  it  again. 

Behold  that  ancient  house  on  yonder  lawn, 
Close  by  whose  rustic  porch  an  elm  is  seen : 

Lo !  now  has  past  the  service  of  the  morn 
A  joyous  group  are  hastening  o'er  the  green, 
Led  by  an  aged  sire  of  gracious  mien, 

Whose  gay  descendants  are  all  met,  to  hold 
Their  glad   thanksgiving,  in  that  sylvan  scene, 

That  once  enclosed  them  in  one  happy  fold, 

Ere  waves  of  time  and  change  had  o'er  them  roll'd. 

The  hospitable  doors  are  open  thrown  ; 

The  bright  wood-fire  burns  cheerly  in  the  hall; 
And,  gathering  in,  a  busy  hum  makes  known 

The  spirit  of  free  mirtli  that  moves  them  all. 

There,  a  youth  hears  a  lovely  cousin's  call, 
And  flies  alertly  to  unclasp  the  cloak  ; 

And  she,  the  while,  with  merry  laugh  lets  fall 
Upon  his  awkwardness  some  lively  joke, 
Not  pitying  the  blush  her  bantering  has  woke. 

And  there  the  grandam  sits,  in  placid  ease, 
A  gentle  brightness  o'er  her  features  spread; 

Her  children's  children  cluster  round  her  knees, 
Or  on  her  bosom  fondly  rest  their  head. 
Oh!  happy  sight,  to  see  such  blossoms  shed 


MRS.     LITTLE.  53 

Their  sweet  young  fragrance  o'er  such  aged  tree! 

How  vain  to  say,  that,  when  short  youth  has  fled, 
Our  dearest  of  enjoyments  cease  to  be  ; 
When  hoary  eld  is  loved  but  the  more  tenderly. 

And  there  the  manly  farmers  scan  the  news ; 

(Strong  is  their  sense,  though  plain  the  garb  it  wears ;) 
Or,  while  their  pipes  a  lulling  smoke  diffuse, 

They  look  important  from  their  elbow-chairs, 

And  gravely  ponder  on  the  nation's  cares. 
The  matrons  of  the  morning  sermon  speak, 

And  each  its  passing  excellence  declares ; 
While  tears  of  pious  rapture,  pure  and  meek, 
Course  in  soft  beauty  down  the  Christian  mother's  cheek 

Then,  just  at  one,  the  full  thanksgiving  feast, 

Rich   with  the  bounties  of  the  closing  year, 
Is  spread  ;  and,  from  the  greatest  to  the  least, 

All  crowd  the  table,  and  enjoy  the  cheer. 

The  list  of  dainties  will  not  now  appear; 
Save  one  I  cannot  pass  unheeded  by, 

One  dish,  already  to  the  muses  dear, 
One  dish,  that  wakens  memory's  longing  sigh  — 
The  genuine,  far-fan.ed,  Yankee  pumpkin  pie! 

Who  e'er  has  seen  thee  in  thy  flaky  crust 
Display  the  yellow  richness  of  thy  breast, 

But,  as  the  sight  awoke  his  keenest  gust, 

Has  own'd  thee,  of  all  cates  the  choicest,  best? 

Ambrosia  were  a  fool,  to  thee  compared, 
E'en  by  the  ruby  hand  of  Hebe  drest ; 

Thee,  pumpkin  pie,  by  country  maids  prepared, 

With  their  white  rounded  arms  above  the  elbow  bared. 

Now  to  the  kitchen  come  a  vagrant  train, 

O 

The  plenteous  fragments  of  the  feast  to  share. 
The  old  lame  fiddler  wakes  a  merry  strain, 
For  his  mull'd  cider  and  his  pleasant  fare, 
5* 


54  MRS.     LITTLE. 

Reclining  in  that  ancient  wicker  chair ; 
A  veteran  soldier  he,  of  those  proud  times 

When  first  our  freedom's  banner  kissed  the  air: 
His  battles  oft  he  sings  in  untaught  rhymes, 
When  wakening  memory  his  aged  heart  sublimes. 

But  who  is  this,  whose  scarlet  cloak  has  known 

Full  oft  the  pelting  of  the  winter  storm  ? 
Through  its  fringed  hood  a  strong  wild  face  is  shown, 

Tall,  gaunt,  and  bent  with  years,  the  beldam's  form; 

There 's  none  of  all  these  youth  with  vigour  warm, 
Who  dare  by  slightest  word  her  anger  stir, 

So  dark  the  frown  that  does  her  face  deform, 
That  half  the  frighted  villagers  aver, 
The  very  de'il  himself,  incarnate  is  in  her. 

Yet  now  the  sibyl  wears  her  mildest  mood ; 

And  round  her  see  the  anxious  silent  band. 
Falls  from  her  straggling  locks  the  antique  hood, 

As  close  she  peers  in  that  fair  maiden's  hand, 

Who  scarce  the  struggles  in  her  heart  can  stand. 
Affection's  strength  has  made  her  nature  weak, 

She  of  her  lovely  looks  hath  lost  command ; 
The  flecker'd  red  and  white  within  her  cheek  — 
Oh,  all  her  love  it  doth  most  eloquently  speak! 

Thy  doting  faith,  fond  maid,  might  envied  be, 

And  half  excused  the  superstitious  art. 
Now,  when  the  sibyl's  mystic  words  to  thee 

The  happier  fortunes  of  thy  love  impart, 

Thrilling  thy  soul  in  its  most  vital  part, 
How  does  the  throb  of  inward  ecstasy 

Send  the  luxuriant  blushes  from  thy  heart 
All  o'er  thy  varying  cheek;  like  some  clear  sea, 
Where  the  red  morning-glow  falls  full,  but  tremblingly! 


MRS.     LITTLE.  55 

'T  is  evening ;  and  the  rural  ball  begins : 

The  fairy  call  of  music  all  obey ; 
The  circles  round  domestic  hearths  grow  thin ; 

All,  at  the  joyful  signal,  hie  away 

To  yonder  hail  with  lights  and  garlands  gay. 
There,  with  elastic  step,  young  belles  are  seen 

Entering,  all  conscious  of  their  coming  sway : 
Not  oft  their  fancies  underrate,  I  ween, 
The  spoils  and  glories  of  this  festal  scene. 

New  England's  daughters  need  not  envy  those 

Who  in  a  monarches  court  their  jewels  wear ; 
More  lovely  they,  when  but  a  simple  rose 

Glows  through  the  golden  clusters  of  their  hair. 

Could  light  of  diamonds  make  her  look  more  fair, 
Who  moves  in  beauty  through  the  mazy  dance, 

With  buoyant  feet  that  seem'd  to  skim  the  air, 
And  eyes  that  speak  in  each  impassioned  glance 
The  poetry  of  youth,  love's  sweet  and  short  romance. 

He  thinks  not  so,  that  young  enamour'd  boy, 

Who  through  the  dance  her  graceful  steps  doth  guide. 

While  his  heart  swells  with  the  deep  pulse  of  joy. 
Oh  !  no ;  by  nature  taught,   unlearnt  in  pride, 

He  sees  her  in  her  loveliness  array'd, 

All  blushing  for  the  love  she  cannot  hide ; 

And  feels  that  gaudy  art  could  only  shade 

The  brightness  nature  gave  to  his  unrivall'd  maid. 

Gay  bands,  move  on,  your  draught  of  pleasure  quaff; 

I  love  to  listen  to  your  joyous  din, 
The  lad's  light  joke,  the  maiden's  mellow  laugh, 

And   the  brisk  music  of  the  violin. 

How  blithe  to  see  the  sprightly  dance  begin ! 
Entwining  hands,  they  seem  to  float  along, 

With  native  rustic  grace  that  well  might  win 


56  MRS.     LITTLE. 

The  happiest  praises  of  a  sweeter  song, 

From  a  more  gifted  lyre  than  doth  to  me  belong. 

While  these  enjoy  the  mirth  that  suits  their  years, 

Round  the  home-fires  their  peaceful  elders  meet; 
A  gentler  mirth  their  friendly  converse  cheers, 

And  yet,  though  calm  their  pleasures,  they  are  sweet. 
Through  the  cold  shadows  of  the  autumn  day 

Oft  breaks  the  sunshine  with  as  genial  heat, 
As  o'er  the  soft  and  sapphire  skies  of  May, 

Though  nature  then  be  young,  and  exquisitely  gay. 

On  the  white  wings  of  peace  their  days  have  flown, 

Nor  wholly  were  they  thrall'd  by  earthly  cares; 
But  from  their  hearts  to  heaven's  paternal  throne 

Arose  the  daily  incense  of  their  prayers. 

And  now,  as  low  the  sun  of  being  wears, 
The  God  to  whom  their  morning  vows  were  paid, 

Each  grateful  offering  in  remembrance  bears ;  — 
And  cheering  beams  of  merry  are  display'd, 
To  gild  with  heavenly  hopes  their  evening's  pensive  shade. 

But  now,  farewell  to  thee,  thanksgiving  day  ! 

Thou  angel   of  the  year!     One  bounteous  hand 
The  horn  of  deep  abundance  doth  display, 

Raining  its  rich   profusion  o'er  the  land; 

The  other  anr,  outstretched  with  gesture  grand, 
Pointing  its  upraised  finger  to  the  sky, 

Doth  the  warm  tribute  of  our  thanks  demand, 
For  Him,  the  Father  God,  who  from  on  high 
Sheds  gleams  of  purest  joy  o'er  man's  dark  destiny. 


MARIA  A.  BROOKS, 

KNOWN  in  the  literary  world  as  Maria  del  Occidente,  was  a  descend 
ant  of  an  ancient  Welsh  family  of  the  name  of  Govvan,  and  was  bom  in 
Medford,  near  Boston,  1795.  The  remarkable  genius,  which  has  won 
for  her  such  a  lofty  reputation,  showed  itself  at  a  very  early  age.  The 
finest  passages  in  Milton  and  Shakspeare  were  treasured  in  her  memo 
ry  before  she  was  eight  years  old ;  and  she  soon  obtained  a  thorough 
acquaintance  with  all  the  best  English  authors.  By  the  time  she  was 
twelve,  she  had  acquired  an  exquisite  skill  in  music  and  painting,  and 
could  converse  easily  in  many  of  the  modern  languages.  Besides  these 
accomplishments,  she  had  an  unusually  familiar  knowledge  of  the  lite 
rature  of  olden  times,  the  ancient  fathers,  and  Oriental  writers,  the 
classic  poets,  and  histories  and  fables  of  Greece  and  Rome.  She  was 
betrothed  at  fourteen,  and  married,  as  soon  as  her  education  was  finish 
ed,  to  Mr.  Brooks,  a  merchant  of  Boston.  Her  first  publication  appeared 
in  1820,  called  Judith,  Esther,  find  other  Poems,  by  a  lover  of  the.  Fine 
Arts;  which  was  highly  praised  in  some  of  the  English,  as  well  as 
American  journals. 

Her  husband  died  in  1821 ;  and  soon  after  his  death  Mrs.  Brooks  went 
to  live  in  Cuba.  This  was  her  favourite  place  of  residence  ;  she  visited 
Europe,  and  afterwards  lived  several  years  at  West  Point,  (in  the  vicinity 
ofthe  military  academy,  where  one  of  her  sons  was  educated  ;)  but  always 
returned  with  peculiar  satisfaction  to  her  southern  home.  The  warmth 
ofthe  climate  and  luxuriance  of  its  vegetation,  suited  well  her  poetical 
temperament;  their  influence  may  be  seen  in  all  her  productions.  The 
poem  upon  which  the  fame  of  Mrs.  Brooks  principally  rests,  which  led 
Southey  to  designate  her  as  "the  most  impassioned  and  most  imagina 
tive  of  a'i  poetesses,"  is  Zophicl ,-  or,  the  liride  of  Seven,  finished  in 
1831.  It  is  indeed  a  curious  work  of  genius;  containing  passages  full 
of  vigour,  warmth  and  brilliancy.  Many  of  her  descriptions  glow  before 
your  eyes  like  the  rich  painting  of  a  master's  hand;  where,  the  longer 
you  look,  the  more  beauty  you  discover;  finding,  even  in  the  darkest 
shadows,  forms  instinct  with  life  and  expression.  The  story  is  one  that 
cannot  attract  much  interest,  or  elicit  much  sympathy;  but  the  fine 
thoughts  scattered  throughout  amply  reward  those  who  read  it  through  ; 

(57) 


58 


MARIA     A.     BROOKS. 


carefully  winding  their  way  through  the  somewhat  intricate  maze  of 
elisions,  and  inversions,  and  hard  proper  names.  The  extracts  we  have 
selected,  however,  almost  belie  the  censure,  while  they  more  than  jus 
tify  the  praise. 

The  Notes  to  this  poem  are  full  of  curious  information,  and  more  in 
teresting  than  the  poem  itself  She  tells  us  that  «  some  of  them  were 
written  in  Cuba,  some  in  Canada,  some  at  Hanover,  U.  S.,  some  at 
Paris,  and  the  last  atKeswick,  England,  under  the  kind  encouragement 
of  Robert  Sou  they,  Esq. ;  and  near  a  window  which  overlooks  the  beau 
tiful  lake  Derwent,  and  the  finest  groups  of  those  mountains  which  en 
circle  completely  that  charming  valley  where  the  Greta  winds  over  its 
bed  of  clean  pebbles,  looking  as  clear  as  dew."  Mrs.  Brooks  wrote 
a  prose  romance,  entitled  Idomen,  or  the  Vale  of  Yumuri,  which  was 
published  in  1843.  This  was  among  the  latest  productions  of  her  crea 
tive  mind  ;  for  at  the  close  of  1845,  she  died  on  her  estate  in  the  island 
of  Cuba. 

DESCRIPTION     OF     EGLA. 

(FROM    7.  6  r  11 1  K  L  . ) 

BLEST  were  those  days!     Can  these  dull  ages  boast 
Aught  to  compare  ?    though  now   no  more  beguile, 

Chain'd  in  their  darkling  depths,  the  infernal  host; 

Who  would  not  brave  a  fiend  to  share  an  angel's  smile  ? 

'Twas  then  there  lived  a  captive  Hebrew  pair; 

In  woe  the  embraces  of  their  youth  had  past; 
And  blest  their  paler  years  one  daughter;  fair 

She  flourish'd,  like  a  lonely  rose,  the  last 

And  loveliest  of  her  line.     The  tear  of  joy, 
The  early  love  of  song,  the  sigh  that  broke 

From  her  young  lip,  the  best  beloved  employ; 
What  womanhood  disclosed,  in  infancy  bespoke 

A  child  of  passion :    tenderest  and  best 

Of  all  that  heart  has  inly  loved  and  felt, 
Adorned  the  fair  enclosure  of  her  breast : 

Where  passion  is  not  found,  no  virtue  ever  dwelt. 


MARIA     A.     BROOKS.  59 

t 

Yet,  not  perverted,  would  my  words  imply 
The  impulse  given  by  Heaven's  great  Artisan 

Alike  to  man  and  worm,  mere  spring,  whereby 

The  distant  wheels  of  life,  while  time  endures,  roll  on: 

But  the  collective  attributes  that  fill, 

About  the  soul,  their  all-important  place  ; 
That  feed  her  fires,  empower  her  fainting  will, 

And  write  the  God  on  feeble  mortal's  face. 

Yet  anger  or  revenge,  envy  or  hate, 

The  damsel  knew  not :    when  her  bosom  burned 
And  injury  darken'd  the  decrees  of  fate, 

She  had  more  piteous  sigh'd  to  see  that  pain  return'd. 

Or  if,  perchance,  though  form'd  most  just  and  pure, 

Amid  their  virtue's  wild  luxuriance  hid, 
Such  germs,  all  mortal  bosoms  must  immure 

Which  sometimes  show  their  poisonous  heads,  unbid, — 

If,  haply  such  the  fair  Judean  finds, 

Self-knowledge  wept  the  abasing  truth  to  know ; 

And  innate  Pride,  that  queen  of  noble  minds, 
Crush'd  them  indignant  ere  a  bud  could  grow. 

And  such,  even  now,  in  earliest  youth  are  seen ; 

But  would  they  live,  with  armour  more  deform 
Their  breasts  made  soft  by  too  much  love  must  screen :  — 

"  The  bird  that  sweetest  sings  can  least  endure  the  storm." 

And  yet,  despite  of  all,  the  starting  tear, 

The  melting  tone,  the  blood  sum'isive,  proved, 

The  soul  that  in  them  spoke  could  spurn  at  fear 
Of  death  or  danger ;    and  had  those  she  loved 

Required  it  at  their  need,  she  could  have  stood, 
Unmoved,  as  some  fair-sculptured  statue,  while 

Tne  dome  that  guards  it  earth's  convulsions  rude 
Are  shivering,  meeting  ruin  with  a  smile. 


L. 


60  MARIA      A.      BROOKS. 

And  this  at  intervals  in  language  bright 

Told  her  blue  eyes;    though  oft  the  tender  lid 

Droop'd  like  a  noon-day  lily,  languid,  white, 
And  trembling,  all  save  love  and  lustre  hid ; 

Then,  as  young  Christian  bard  had  sung,  they  seem'd 
Like  some  Madonna  in  his  soul,  so  sainted; 

But  opening  in  their  energy  they  beam'd 
As  tasteful  Grecians  their  Minerva  pafnted ; 

While  o'er  her  graceful  shoulder's  milky  swell, 
Silky  as  those  on  little  children  seen, 

Yet  thick  as   Indian  fleece  her  ringlets  fell, 
Nor  own'd  Pactolus'  sands  a  brighter  sheen. 


KOLA'S   BOWER. 

(FROM    THE    SAME.) 

ACACIAS  here  inclined 

Their  friendly  heads  in  thick  profusion,  planted, 
And  with  a  thousand  tendrils  clasp'd  and  twined; 
And  when  at  fervid  noon  all  nature  panted, 

Enwoven  with  their  boughs,  a  fragrant  bower 

Inviting  rest  its  mossy  pillow  flung; 
And  here  the  full  cerulean  passion-flower, 

Climbing  among  the  leaves,  its  mystic  symbols  hung. 

And,  though  the  sun  had  gained  his  utmost  height, 
Just  as  he  oped  its  vivid  folds  at  dawn, 

Look'd  still,  that  tenderest,  frailest  child  of  light, 
By  shepherds  named  "  the  glory  of  the  morn." 

Sweet  flower,  thou  'rt  lovelier  even  than  the  rose  : 
The  rose  is  pleasure, —  felt  and  known  as  such  — 

Soon  past,  but  real, —  tasted,  while  it  glows  ; 
But  thou,  too  bright  and  pure  for  mortal  touch, 


MARIA     A.     BROOKS.  61 

Art  like  those  brilliant  things  we  never  taste 
Or  see,  unless  with  Fancy's  lip  and  eye, 

When  maddened  by  her  mystic  spells,  we  waste 
Life  on  a  thought,  and  rob  reality. 

Here,  too,  the  lily  raised  its  snow-white  head ; 

And  myrtle  leaves,  like  friendship,  when  sincere, 
Most  sweet  when  wounded,  all  around  were  spread ; 
And  though  from  noon's  fierce  heat  the  wild  deer  fled, 

A  soft  warm  twilight  reign'd  impervious  here. 

Tranquil  and  lone  in  such  a  light  to  be, 

How  sweet  to  sense  and  soul !    the  form  recline 

Forgets  it  e'er  felt  pain ;    and  Reverie, 

Sweet  mother  of  the  muses,  heart  and  soul  are  thine! 

AMBITION. 

(FROM   THE   SAME.) 

WOE  to  thee,  wild  ambition !    I  employ 

Despair's  low  notes  thy  dread  effects  to  tell; 

Born  in  high  Heaven,  her  peace  thou  couldst  destroy ; 
And,  but  for  thee,  there  had  not  been  a  Hell. 

Through  the  celestial  domes  thy  clarion  peal'd  ; 

Angels,  entranced,  beneath  thy  banners  ranged, 
And  straight  were  fiends ;    hurl'd  from  the   shrinking  field, 

They  waked  in  agony  to  wail  the  change. 

Darting  through  all  her  veins  the  subtle  fire, 

The  world's  fair  mistress  first  inhaled  thy  breath ; 

To  lot  of  higher  beings  learnt  to  aspire; 

Dared  to  attempt,  and  doom'd  the  world  to  death. 

The  thousand  wild  desires,  that  still  torment 

The  fiercely  struggling  soul,  where  peace  once  dwelt, 

But  perish'd  ;    feverish  hope ;    drear  discontent, 
Impoisoning  all  possest,  —  Oh!    I  have  felt 
6 


62  MARIA     A.      BROOKS. 

As  spirits  feel, —  yet  not  for  man  we  mourn, 
Scarce  o'er  the  silly  bird  in  state  were  he, 

That  builds  his  nest,  loves,  sings  the  morn's  return, 
And  sleeps  at  evening;    save  by  aid  of  thee. 

Fame  ne'er  had  roused,  nor  song  her  records  kept; 

The  gem,  the  ore,  the  marble  breathing  life, 
The  pencil's  colours,  all  in  earth  had  slept, 

Now  see  them  mark  with  death  his  victim's  strife. 

Man  found  thee:  but  Death  and  dull  decay, 
Baffling,  by  aid  of  thee,  his  mastery  proves; 

By  mighty  works  he  swells  his  narrow  day, 
And  reigns,  for  ages,  on  the  world  he  loves. 

Yet  what  the  price?     With  stings  that  never  cease 
Thou  goad'st  him  on  ;    and  when  too  keen  the  smart, 

His  highest  dole  he'd  barter  but  for  peace, 
Food  thou  wilt  have,  or  feast  upon  his  heart. 

THE     OBEDIENT     LOVE     OF     WOMAN     HER     HIGHEST 

BLISS. 


(FROM     THE    SAME.) 


WHAT  bliss  for  her  who  lives  her  little  day, 

In  blest  obedience,  like  to  those  divine, 
Who  to  her  loved,  her  earthly  lord  can  say, 
'God  is  thy  law,'  most  just,  'and  thou  art  mine.' 

To  every  blast  she  bends  in  beauty  meek;  — 

Let  the  storm  beat, —  his  arms  her  shelter  kind, — 

And  feels  no  need  to  blanch  her  rosy  cheek 
With  thoughts  befitting  his  superior  mind. 

Who  only  sorrows  when  she  sees  him  pain'd, 
Then  knows  to  pluck  away  pain's  keenest  dart; 

Or  bid  love  catch  it  ere  its  goal  be  gain'd, 
And  steal  its  venom  ere  it  reach  his  heart. 


MARIA     A.     BROOKS.  63 

'T  is  the  soul's  food  :  —  the  fervid  must  adore. — 
For  this  the  heathen,  unsufficed  with  thought, 

Moulds  him  an  idol  of  the  glittering  ore, 

And  shrines  his  smiling  goddess,  marble-wrought. 

What  bliss  for  her,  ev'n  in  this  world  of  woe, 

Oh!  Sire,  who  mak'st  yon  orb-strewn  arch  thy  throne- 

That  sees  thee  in  thy   noblest  work  below 
Shine  undefaced,  adored,  and  all  her  own ! 

This  I  had  hoped;    but  hope  too  dear,  too  great, 
Go  to  thy  grave!  —  I  feel  thee  blasted,  now. 

Give  me,  fate's  sovereign,  well  to  bear  the  fate 
Thy  pleasure  sends ;    this,  my  sole  prayer,  allow ! 

ZOPHIEL'S    OFFERINGS    TO    EGLA. 

(FROM     THE    SAME.) 

THEN,  lowly  bending,  with  seraphic  grace, 
The  vase  he  profler'd  full ;    and  not  a  gem 

Drawn  forth  successive  from   its  sparkling  place, 
But  put  to  shame  the  Persian  diadern. 

While  lie,  u  Nay,  let  me  o'er  thy  white  arms  bind 
These  orient  pearls,  less  smooth  ;  Egla,  for  thee, 

(My  thrilling  substance  pained  by  storm  and  wind,) 
I  sought  them  in  the  caverns  of  the  sea. 

"  Look  !    here  's  a  ruby  ;    drinking  solar  rays, 

I  saw   it  redden  on  a  mountain  tip  ; 
Now  on  thy  snowy  bosom  let  it  blaze  j 

'T  will  blush  still  deeper  to  behold  thy  lip. 

"  Here 's  for  thy  hair  a  garland  ;    every  flower 

That  spreads  its  blossoms,  water'd  by  the  tear 
Of  the  sad  slave  in  Babylonian  bower, 

Might  see  its  frail  bright  hues  perpetuate  here. 


64  MARIA     A.     BROOKS. 

"For  morn's  light  bell,  this  changeful  amethyst; 

A  sapphire  for  the  violet's  tender  blue; 
Large  opals,  for  the  queen-rose  zephyr-kist ; 

And  here  are  emeralds  of  every  hue, 
For  folded  bud  and  leaflet,  droppM  with  dew. 

"  And  here 's  a  diamond,  cull'd  from  Indian   mine, 

To  gift  a  haughty  queen!    It  might  not  be; 
I  knew  a  worthier  brow,  sister  divine, 

And  brought  the  gem  ;   for  well  I  deem,  for  thee 

"The  carch-chymic  sun'  in  earth's  dark  bosom  wrought 

To  prison  thus  a  ray,  that  when  dull  night 
Frowns  o'er  her  realms,  and  nature's  all  seems  nought, 
She    whom    he   grieves    to   leave   may  still   behold   his 
light." 

SARDIUS     IN     HIS    PAVILION     WITH     ALTHEETOR. 

(FROM     THE     SAME.) 

BENEATH  that  dome,  reclined  the  youthful  king, 
Upon  a  silver  couch  ;    and  soothed  to  mood 

As  free  and  soft  as  perfumes  from  the  wing 
Of  bird,  that  shook  the  jasmines  as  it  woo'd; 

Us  fitful  song  the  mingling  murmur  meeting 

Of  marble  founts  of  many  a  fair  device ; 
And  bees  that  banquet,  from  the  sun  retreating, 

In  every  full,  deep  flower,  that  crowns  his  paradise. 

While  gemmy  diadem  thrown  down  beside, 

And  garment,  at  the  neck  plucked  open,  proved 

His  unconstraint,  and  scorn  of  regal  pride, 

When  thus  apart  retired,  he  sat  with  those  he  loved. 

One  careless  arm  around  the  boy  was  flung, 

Not  undeserving  of  that  free  caress ; 
But  warm  and  true,  and  of  a  heart  and  tongue, 

To  heighten  bliss,  or  mitigate  distress. 


MARIA     A.     BROOKS.  65 

Quick  to  perceive,  in  him  no  freedom  rude 
Reproved  full  confidence ;   friendship,  the  meat, 

His  soul  had  starved  without,  with  gratitude 

Was  ta'en ;    and  her  rich  wine  crown'd  high  the  banquet 
sweet. 

ZOPHIEL'S    LAMENT    OVER   ALTHEETOR. 

(FROM  THE   SAME.) 

AND  thus,  at  length  his  plaintive  lip  expressed 

The  mitigated  pang;    'tis  sometimes  so 
When  grief  meets  genius  in  the  mortal  breast, 

And  words,  most  deeply  sweet,  betray  subsided  woe. 

"  Thou  'rt  gone,  Altheetor ;    of  thy  gentle  breath 

Guiltless  am  I,  but  bear  the  penalty! 
Oh !   is  there  one  to  whom  thine  earthly  death 
Can  cause  the  sorrow  it  has  caused  to  me  ? 

"Cold,  cold,  and  hush'd,  is  that  fond,  faithful  breast; 

Oh  !    of  the  breath  of  God  too  much  was  there ! 
It  swell'd,  aspired,  it  could  not  be  compress'd  — 
But  gain'd  a  bliss  fair  nature  could  not  bear. 

"  Oh  !    good  and  true  beyond  thy  mortal  birth ! 

What  high-soul'd  angel  help'd  in  forming  thee  ? 
Haply  thou  wert  what  I  had  been,  if  earth 
Had  been  the  element  composing  me. 

"Banish'd  from  heaven  so  long,  what  there  transpires, 

Tliis  weary  exiled  ear  may  rarely  meet. 
But  it  is  whisper'd   that  the  unquellM  desires 
Another  spirit  for  each  forfeit  seat, 

"Left  vacant  by  our  fall.     That  spirit  placed 

In  mortal  form,  must  every  trial  bear, 
'Midst  all  that  can  pollute  ;    and,  if  defaced 
But  by  one  stain,  it  may  not  enter  there. 
6*  E 


66  MARIA     A.     BROOKS. 

"  Though  all  the  earth  is  wing'd,  from  bound  to  bound ; 

Though  heaven  desires,  and  angels  watch,  and  pray 
To  see  their  ranks  with  fair  completion  crown'd ; 
So  few  to  bless  their  utmost  search  are  found, 

That  half  in  heaven  have  ceased  to  hope  the  day ; 
And  pensive  seraphs'  sighs,  o'er  heavenly  harps  resound. 

"  And  when,  long  wandering  from  his  blissful  height, 

One  like  to  thee  some  quick-eyed  spirit  views, 
He  springs  to  heaven,  more  radiant  from  delight, 

And   heaven's    blue  domes   ring  loud  with   rapture  at  the 
news. 

"  Yet  oft  the  being,  by  all  heaven  beloved, 

(So  doubtful  every  good,  in  world  like  this;) 
Some  fiend  corrupts  ere  ripe  to  be  removed  : 

And  tears  are  seen  in  eyes  made  but  to  float  in  bliss." 


MIDNIGHT. 

(FROM    THE    SAME.) 

'Tis  now  the  hour  of  mirth,  the  hour  of  love, 

The  hour  of  melancholy.     Night,  as  vain 
Of  her  full  beauty,  seems  to  pause  above, 

That  all  may  look  upon  her  ere  it  wane. 

The  heavenly  angel  watch'd  his  subject's  star 
O'er  all  that's  good  and  fair  benignly  smiling; 

The  sighs  of  wounded  love  he  hears,  from  far; 

Weeps  that  he  cannot  heal,  and  wafts  a  hope  beguiling. 

The  nether  earth  looks  beauteous  as  a  gem; 

High  o'er  her  groves,  in  floods  of  moonlight  laving, 
The  towering  palm  displays  his  silver  stem, 

The  while  his  plumy  leaves  scarce  in  the  breeze  are  waving. 


MARIA    A.     BROOKS.  67 

The  nightingale  among  his  roses  sleeps ; 

The  soft-eyed  doe  in  thicket  deep  is  sleeping; 
The  dark  green  myrrh  her  tears  of  fragrance  weeps, 

And,  every  odorous  spike  in  limpid  dew  is  steeping. 

Proud  prickly  cerea,  now  thy  blossom  'scapes 
Its  cell;    brief  cup  of  light;    and  seems  to  say, 

"  1  am  not  for  gross  mortals ;    blood  of  grapes  — 
And  sleep  for  them!     Come  spirits,  while  ye  may!" 

A  silent  stream  winds  darkly  through  the  shade, 
And  slowly  gains  the  Tigris,  where  'tis  lost; 

By  a  forgotten  prince,  of  old,  't  was  made, 
And,  in  its  course,  full  many  a  fragment  crost 

Of  marble  fairly  carved ;    and  by  its  side 

Her  golden  dust  the  flaunting  lotus  threw 
O'er  her  white  sisters,  throned  upon  the  tide, 

And  queen  of  every  flower  that  loves  perpetual  dew. 


THE 

(FROM  THE  SAME.) 

PRELUDING  low,  in  notes  that  faint  and  tremble, 
Swelling,  awakening,  dying,  plaining  deep, 

While  such  sensations  in  the  soul  assemble, 
As  make  it  pleasure  to  the  eyes  to  weep. 

Is  there  a  heart  that  ever  loved  in  vain, 

Though  years  have  thrown  their  veil  o'er  all  most  dear, 
That  lives  not  each  sensation  o'er  again 

In  sympathy  with  sounds  like  those  that  mingle  here? 

Still  the  fair  Gnome's  light  hand  the  chime  prolongs; 

And  while  his  utmost  art  the  strain  employs, 
Cephroniel's  softened  son  in  gushing  songs, 

Pour'd  forth  his  sad,  deep  sense  of  long  departed  joys. 


68  MARIA     A.     BROOKS. 


Oh,  my  Phronema!  how  thy  yellow  hair 
Was  fragrant,  when,  by  looks  alone  carest, 

I  felt  it,  wafted  by  the  pitying  air, 

Float  o'er  my  lips,  and  touch  my  fervid  breast! 

How  my  least  word  lent  colour  to  thy  cheek ! 

And  how  thy  gentle  form  would  heave  and  swell, 
As  if  the  love  thy  heart  contain'd.  would  break 

That  warm  pure  shrine  where  nature  bade  it  dwell. 

We  parted ;   years  are  past,  and  tJiou  art  dead ; 

Never,  Phronema,  can  I  see  thee  more ! 
One  little  ringlet  of  thy  graceful  head 

Lies  next  my  heart;    'tis  all  I  may  adore. 

Torn  from  thy  sight,  to  save  a  life  of  gloom, 
Hopes  unaccomplish'd,  warmest  wishes  crost  — 

How  can  I  longer  bear  my  weary  doom  ? 
Alas !    what  have  I  gain'd  for  all  I  lost  ? 

MORNING. 

(FROM     THE     SAME.) 

How  beauteous  art  thou,  O  thou  morning  sun!  — 
The  old  man,  feebly  tottering  forth,  admires 

As  much  thy  beauty,  now  life's  dream  is  done, 
As  when  he  moved  exulting  in  his  fires. 

The  infant  strains  his  little  arms,  to  catch 
The  rays  that  glance  about  his  silken  hair; 

And  Luxury  hangs  her  amber  lamps,  to  match 

Thy  face,  when  turned  away  from  bower  and  palace  fair. 

Sweet  to  the  lip,  the  draught,  the  blushing  fruit; 

Music  and  perfumes  mingle  with  the  soul ; 
How  thrills  the  kiss,  when  feeling's  voice  is  mute ; 

And  light  and  beauty's  tints  enhance  the  whole. 


MARIA     A.     BROOKS.  69 

Yet  each  keen  sense  were  dulness  but  for  thee; 

Thy  ray  to  joy,  love,  virtue,  genius,  warms; 
Thou  never  weariest;    no  inconstancy 

But  comes  to  pay  new  homage  to  thy  charms. 

How  many  lips  have  sung  thy  praise,  how  long! 

Yet,  when  his  slumbering  harp  he  feels  thee  woo, 
The  pleasured  bard  pours  forth  another  song, 

And  finds  in  thee,  like  love,  a  theme  for  ever  new. 

Thy  dark-eyed  daughters  come  in  beauty  forth 

In  thy  near  realms ;    and,  like  their  snow-wreaths  fair, 

The  bright-hair'd  youths  and  maidens  of  the  North, 
Smile  in  thy  colours  when  thou  art  not  there. 

'Tis  there  thou  bid'st  a  deeper  ardour  glow, 

And  higher,  purer  reveries  completest; 
As  drops  that  farthest  from  the  ocean  flow, 

Refining  all  the  way,  from  springs  the  sweetest. 

Haply,  sometimes,  spent  with  the  sleepless  night, 

Some  wretch  impassion'd,  from  swreet  morning's  breath, 

Turns  his  hot  brow  and  sickens  at  thy  light ; 

But  Nature,  ever  kind,  soon  heals  or  gives  him  death. 

TWILIGHT     THOUGHTS. 

(FROM    THE    SAME.) 

SWEET  is  the  evening  twilight;    but,  alas! 

There 's  sadness  in  it :    day's  light  tasks  are  done, 
And  leisure  sighs  to  think  how  soon  must  pass 

Those  tints  that  melt  o'er  heaven,  O  setting  sun, 

And  look  like  heaven  dissolved.     A  tender  flush 

Of  blended  rose  and  purple  light,  o'er  all 
The  luscious  landscape  spreads  like  pleasure's  blush, 

And  glows  o'er  wave,  sky,  flower,  cottage,  and  palm-tree 
tall. 


70  MARIA     A.     BROOKS. 

T  is  now  that  solitude  has  most  of  pain ; 

Vague  apprehensions  of  approaching  night 
Whisper  the  soul,  attuned  to  bliss,  and  fain 

To  find  in  love  equivalent  for  light. 

The  bard  has  sung,  God  never  form'd  a  soul 

Without  its  own  peculiar  mate,  to  meet 
Its  wandering  half,  when  ripe  to  crown  the  whole 

Bright  plan  of  bliss,  most  heavenly,  most  complete ! 

But  thousand  evil  things  there  are  that  hate 
To  look  on  happiness ;    these  hurt,  impede ; 

And  leagued  with  time,  space,  circumstance,  and  fate, 
Keep  kindred  heart  from  heart  to  pine,  and  pant,  and  bleed. 

And,  as  the  dove  to  far  Palmyra  flying 

From  where  her  native  founts  of  Antioch  beam, 

Weary,  exhausted,  longing,  panting,  sighing, 
Lights  sadly  at  the  desert's  bitter  stream, — 

So  —  many  a  soul  o'er  life's  drear  desert  faring, 

Love's  pure  congenial  spring  unfound,  —  unquaff'd  — 

Suffers  —  recoils  —  then,  thirsty  and  despairing 

Of  what  it  would,  descends  and  sips  the  nearest  draught. 


SONG. 

(FROM    THE    SAME.) 

DAY,  in  melting  purple  dying, 
Blossoms,  all  around  me  sighing, 
Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying, 
Zephyr,  with  my  ringlets  playing, 
Ye  but  waken  my  distress 
I  am  sick  of  loneliness. 

Thou  to  whom  I  love  to  hearken, 
Come,  ere  night  around  me  darken; 


MARIA     A.     BROOKS. 

Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me, 
Say  thou'rt  true,  and  I'll  believe  thee; 
Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul's  intent, 
Let  me  think  it  innocent. 

Save  thy  toiling,  spare  thy  treasure ; 
All  I  ask  is  friendship's  pleasure; 
Let  the  shining  ore  lie  darkling, 
Bring  no  gem  in  lustre  sparkling; 

Gifts  and  gold  are  nought  to  me; 

I  would  only  look  on  thee ! 

Tell  to  thee  the  high-wrought  feeling, 

Ecstasy  but  in  revealing ; 

Paint  to  thee  the  deep  sensation, 

Rapture  in  participation, 

Yet  but  torture,  if  comprest 
In  a  lone  unfriended  breast. 

Absent  still  ?     Ah  !    come  and  bless  me  ! 

Let  these  eyes  again  caress  thee; 

Once,  in  caution,  I  could  fly  thee; 

Now,  I  nothing  could  deny  thee; 

In  a  look  if  death  there  be, 
Come  and  I  will  gaze  on  thee! 

THE     GUARDIAN     ANGEL. 

(FROM     THE     SAME.) 

"  CALL  me  no  longer  Hariph  :    I  but  took, 

For  love  of  that  young  pair,  this  mortal  guise; 
And  often  have  I  stood,  beside  Heaven's  book, 
And  given  in  record  there,  their  deeds  and  sighs. 

"  From  infancy  I  've  watch'd  them,  —  far  apart,— 

Oppress'd  by  men  and  fiends  ;    yet,  form'd  to  dwell 
Soul  blent  with  soul,  and  beating  heart  'gainst  heart; 
'Tis  done.  — Behold  the  angel  Raphael. 


71 


72  MARIA     A.     BROOKS. 

"  That  blest  commission,  friend  of  men,  I  bear, 

To  comfort  those  who  undeservedly  mourn ; 
And  every  good  resolve,  kind  tear,  heart-prayer, 
'Tis  mine  to  show  before  the  Eternal's  throne. 

"  And  oft  I  haste,  and  when  the  good  and  true 
Are  headlong  urged  to  deep  pollution,  save; 
Just  as  my  wings  receive  some  drops  of  dew, 
Which  else  must  join  Asphaltites'  black  wave." 

He  said;    all  o'er  to  radiant  beauty  warming, 

While  they,  in  doubt  of  what  they  look'd  upon, 

Beheld  a  form  —  dissolving  —  dazzling  —  charming  — 
But,  ere  their  lips  found  utterance,  it  was  gone. 


TO     ROBERT     SOUTHEY. 

OH  !  laurel'd  bard,  how  can  I  part, 

Those  cheering  smiles  no  more  to  see, 

Until  my  soothed  and  solaced  heart 
Pours  forth  one  grateful  lay  to  thee  ? 

Fair  virtue  tuned  thy  youthful  breath, 
And  peace  and  pleasure  bless  thee  now; 

For  love  and  beauty  guard  the  wreath 
Tiiat  blooms  upon  thy  manly  brow. 

The   Indian,  leaning  on  his  bow, 

On  hostile  cliff,  in  desert  drear, 
Cast  with  less  joy  his  glance  below, 

When  came  some  friendly  warrior  near ; 

The  native  dove  of  that  warm  isle 

Where  oft,  with  flowers,  my  lyre  was  drest, 
Sees  with  less  joy  the  sun  awhile 

When  vertic  rains  have  drench'd  her  nest, 


MARIA    A.     BROOKS.  73 

Than  I,  a  stranger,  first  beheld 

Thine  eye's  harmonious  welcome  given 

With  gentle  word,  which,  as  it  swell'd, 
Came  to  my  heart  benign  as  heaven. 

Soft  be  thy  sleep,  as  mists  that  rest 

On  Skiddaw's  top  at  summer  morn ; 
Smooth  be  thy  days  as  Derwent's  breast, 

When  summer  light  is  almost  gone! 

And  yet,  for  thee,  why  breathe  a  prayer? 

I  deem  thy  fate  is  given  in  trust 
To  seraphs,  who  by  daily  care, 

Would  prove  that  heaven  is  not  unjust. 

And  treasured  shall  thine  image  be 

In  memory's  purest,  holiest  shrine, 
While  truth  and  honour  glow  in  thee, 

Or  life's  warm  quivering  pulse  is  mine. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

To  meet  a  friendship  such  as  mine, 
Such  feelings  must  the  soul  refine, 
As  are  not  oft  of  mortal  birth ;  — 
'T  is  love,  without  a  stain  of  earth. 

Looks  are  its  food,  its  nectar  sighs, 
Its  couch  the  lips,  its  throne  the  eyes, 
The  soul  its  breath,  and  so  possest, 
Heaven's  raptures  reign  in  mortal  breast. 

Though  Friendship  be  its  earthly  name, 
Purely  from  highest  Heaven  it  came; 
'Tis  seldom  felt  for  more  than  one, 
And  scorns  to  dwell  with  Venus'  son. 
7 


74  MARIA     A.     BROOKS. 

Him  let  it  view  not,  or  it  dies 
Like  tender  hues  of  morning  skies, 
Or  morn's  sweet  flower,  of  purple  glow, 
When  sunny  beams  too  ardent  grow. 

A  charm  o'er  every  object  plays  — 
All  looks  so  lovely  while  it  stays, 
So  softly  forth,  in  rosier  tides, 
The  vital  flood  ecstatic  glides, 

That,  wrung  by  grief  to  see  it  part, 
Its  dearest  drop  escapes  the  heart ; 
Such  drop,  I  need  not  tell  thee,  fell 
While  bidding  it,  for  thee,  farewell. 


LINES 

COMPOSED    AT   THE   REQUEST    OF    A    LADY    WHO    RETURNED    TO    THE    NORTH 
AND    DIED    SOON    AFTER. 

ADIEU,  fair  isle!     I  love  thy  bowers, 
I  love  thy  dark -eyed  daughters  there ; 

The  cool  pomegranate's  scarlet  flowers 
Look  brighter  in  their  jetty  hair. 

They  praised  my  forehead's  stainless  white; 

And  when  I  thirsted,  gave  a  draught 
From  the  full  clustering  cocoa's  height, 

And  smiling,  bless'd  me  as  I  quafPd. 

Well  pleased,  the  kind  return  I  gave, 
And,  clasp'd  in  their  embraces'  twine, 

Felt  the  soft  breeze,  like  Lethe's  wave, 
Becalm  this  beating  heart  of  mine. 

Why  will  my  heart  so  wildly  beat? 

Say,  Seraphs,  is  my  lot  too  blest, 
That  thus  a  fitful,  feverish  heat, 

Must  rifle  me  of  health  and  rest  ? 


MARIA     A.     BROOKS.  75 

Alas !  I  fear  my  native  snows ;  — 

A  clime  too  cold,  a  heart  too  warm  — 

Alternate  chills  —  alternate  glows  — 

Too  fiercely  threat  my  flower-like  form. 

The  orange-tree  has  fruit  and  flowers; 

The  grenadilla,  in  its  bloom, 
Hangs  o'er  its  high,  luxuriant  bowers, 

Like  fringes  from  a  Tyrian  loom. 

When  the  white  coffee-blossoms  swell, 

The  fair  moon  full,  the  evening  long, 
I  love  to  hear  the  warbling  bell, 

And  sun-burnt  peasant's  wayward  song. 

Drive  gently  on,  dark  muleteer, 

And  the  light  seguidilla  frame: 
Fain  would  I  listen  still,  to  hear 

At  every  close  thy  mistress'  name. 

Adieu,  fair  isle!  the  waving  palm 

Is  pencill'd  on  thy  purest  sky; 
Warm  sleeps  the  bay,  the  air  is  balm, 

And,  soothed  to  languor,  scarce  a  sigh 

Escapes  for  those  I  love  so  well, 

For  those  1  've  loved  and  left  so  long, 

On  me  their  fondest  musings  dwell, 
To  them  alone  my  sighs  belong. 

On,  on,  my  bark!  blow,  southern  breeze! 

No  longer  would   I  lingering  stay; 
'T  were  better  far  to  die  with  these, 

Than  live  in  pleasure  far  away. 


76  LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY. 

SONG. 

OH,  moon  of  flowers !  sweet  moon  of  flowers, 
Why  dost  thou  mind  me  of  the  hours 
Which  flew  so  softly  on  that  night, 
When  last  I  saw  and  felt  thy  light? 

Oh,  moon  of  flowers !  thou  moon  of  flowers, 
Would  thou  couldst  give  me  hack  those  hours, 
Since  which  a  dull  cold  year  has  fled, 
Or  show  me  those  with  whom  they  sped! 

Oh,  moon  of  flowers!  oh,  moon  of  flowers! 
In  scenes  afar  were  past  those  hours, 
Which  still  with  fond  regret  1  see, 
And   wish  my  heart  could  change  like  thee! 


LYDIA  HUNTLEY   SIGOURNEY. 

MRS.  SIGOURNEY,  whose  maiden  name  was  Huntley,  was  born  in  Nor 
wich,  Connecticut,  in  1797.  She  was  the  only  child  of  pious  parents, 
who  early  instilled  into  her  mind  principles  of  religion,  and  habits  of 
industry.  Her  precocity  was  remarkable ;  at  three  she  read  with  a 
distinct  and  perfect  enunciation;  and  at  eight  wrote  verses  which  were 
marked  by  rhythmical  accuracy,  more  than  by  poetic  impulse;  at  nine, 
she  commenced  a  fictitious  work,  in  the  epistolary  style;  and  at  eleven, 
began  a  regular  journal.  Her  diffidence  was  as  great  as  her  love  for 
the  pen ;  for,  having  no  lock  or  key  in  her  possession,  she  carefully  hid 
all  her  effusions  under  huge  piles  of  books,  with  a  nervous  fear,  amount 
ing  to  shame,  lest  they  should  be  discovered.  One  point  in  her  childish 
character  —  so  strong  as  to  be  worth  recording  —  was  an  ardent  love  and 
reverence  for  the  aged,  and  an  extreme  tenderness  towards  animals 
At  school  she  was  distinguished  for  the  ease  with  which  she  acquired 
knowledge,  and  for  her  unceasing  devotion  to  study.  Books,  however 


LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY.  It 

did  not  engross  her  attention  to  the  exclusion  of  other  duties,  for  she 
loved  domestic  employments ;  and  was  as  industrious  in  her  attention  to 
them,  as  in  her  favourite  studies.     She  was  particularly  fond  of  spin 
ning  on  the  great  wheel,  and  constructed  in  this  way  many  fabrics  of 
enduring  benefit  to  the  family  ;  among  others,  a  whole  suit  of  broad 
cloth  for  her  father,  which  he  long  wore  with  peculiar  satisfaction.     To 
those  who  have  read  Mrs.  Sigourney's  most  admirable  and  instructive 
Letters  to  Young  Ladies,  it  will  be  pleasant  to  learn,  that  in  her  own 
case,  precept  and  practice,  as  it  regards  diligence  in  domestic  life,  were 
not  divided.     Her  prevailing  desire  from  childhood  was  to  be  fitted  for 
the  task  of  a  teacher.    Beginning  with  two  young  ladies  as  day-scholars, 
in  her  own  room,  she  afterward  shared  with  a  dear  friend  the  charge 
of  a  large  school,  two  miles  from  her  home.     In  summer  time  she  was 
accustomed  to  walk  this  distance,  morning  and  evening;  the  exercise 
giving  her  a  perpetual  elasticity  of  spirits,  and  vigour  of  health.     Her 
chief  object  in  teaching  now  was  to  assist  her  parents,  whose  income 
was  small,  and  to  add  various  comforts  to  their  home  and  persons,  which 
their  own  prudence  denied.     That  this  filial   desire  might  be  better 
accomplished,  her  kind  friend,  Daniel  Wadsworth,  Esq.,  of  Hartford, 
obtained  for  her,  in  that  city,  a  school  after  her  own  heart,  over  which 
she  presided  for  five  years.     To  this  same  benevolent  friend  she  was 
indebted  for  the  first  encouragement  her  literary  efforts  received ;  and 
through  his  persuasions  she  published  her  first  volume,  called  Moral 
Pieces  in  Prose  and  Verse,  being  then  only  eighteen.     At  twenty,  she 
was  married  to  Mr.  Charles  Sigourney,  of  Hartford;  a  merchant  of  dis 
tinction,  and  a  gentleman   of  wealth    and  education.     In  1822,  Mrs. 
Sigourney  published  a  poem  called  Traits  of  the.  Aborigines  of  America, 
the  proceeds  of  which  were  wholly  devoted  to  religious  charities.     The 
Sketch  of  Connecticut  Forty  years  since,  a  prose  legend,  in  which  the 
history  of  New  England,  and  its  romantic  and  varied  scenery,  are  set 
forth  in  glowing  colours,  appeared  in  1824.     From  that  time,  until  the 
present,  she  has  never  wearied  in  her  endeavours  to  entertain  and  bene 
fit  the  public  mind,  by  her  numerous  writings  in  prose  and  verse.     Her 
pen  is  ever  as  ready  as  it  is  skilful,  for  charitable  purposes ;  and  the  cause 
of  missions,  temperance,  and  every  philanthropic  society,  have  again  and 
again  been  indebted  to  her  genius.     The  one  great  aim  of  her  soul,  is 
—  to  do  good.    Mrs.  Sigourney  visited  England  and  France  in  1840, 
and  spent  a  year  in  travelling  among  the  cities  and  haunts  most  interest 
ing  to  the  mind  of  a  poet,  and  most  likely  to  yield,  not  only  for  herself, 
7* 


78 


LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY. 


but  for  the  public,  Pleasant  Memories  of  Pleasant  Lands.  An  interest 
ing  volume  tinder  this  title,  was  published  soon  after  her  return  from 
England.  She  resides  still  at  Hartford,  Connecticut.  Her  Select  Poems, 
from  which  some  of  the  following  have  been  taken,  have  passed  through 
five  or  six  editions,  which  tells  plainly  the  wide  admiration  they  have 
won,  by  their  mild  dignity  and  harmony,  good  sense,  and  pure  reli 
gion.  Memory,  and  Dew-drops,  have  been  kindly  sent  us  by  the 
authoress,  as  an  express  contribution  for  this  volume. 


SUNSET     ON     THE     ALLEGHANY. 

I  WAS  a  pensive  pilgrim  at  the  foot 

Of  the  crown'd  Alleghany,  when  he  wrapp'd 

His  purple  mantle  gloriously  around, 

And  look  the  homage  of  the  princely  hills, 

And  ancient  forests,  as  they  bow'd  them  down, 

Each  in  his  order  of  nobility. 

—  And  then  in  glorious  pomp,  the  sun  retired 

Behind  that  solemn  shadow.     And  his  train 

Of  crimson,  and  of  azure  and  of  gold, 

Went  floating  up  the  zenith,  tint  on  tint, 

And  my  on  ray,  till  all  the  concave  caught 

His  parting  benediction. 

But  the  glow 

Faded  to  twilight,  and  dim  evening  sank 
In  deeper  shade,  and  there  that  mountain  stood 
In  awful  state,  like  dread  ambassador 
'Twecn  earth  and  heaven.     Methought  it  frown'd  severe 
Upon  the  world  beneath,  and  lifted  up 
The  accusing  forehead  sternly  toward   the  sky, 
To  witness  'gainst  its  sins.     And  is  it  meet 
For  thee,  swoln  out  in  cloud-capp'd  pinnacle, 
To  scorn  thine  own  original,  the  dust 
That,  feebly  eddying  on  the  angry  winds, 


LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY.  79 

Doth  sweep  thy  base  ?     Say,  is  it  meet  for  thee, 
Robing  thyself  in  mystery,  to  impeach 
This  nether  sphere,  from  whence  thy  rocky  root 
Draws  depth  and  nutriment  ? 

But  lo !  a  star, 

The  first  meek  herald  of  advancing  night, 
Doth  peer  above  thy  summit,  as  some  babe 
Might  gaze  with  brow  of  timid  innocence 
Over  a  giant's  shoulder.     Hail,  lone  star! 
Thou  friendly  watcher  o'er  an  erring  world, 
Thine  uncondemning  glance  doth  aptly  teach 
Of  that  untiring  mercy,  which  vouchsafes 
Thee  light,  and  man  salvation. 

Not  to  mark 

And  treasure  up  his  follies,  or  recount 
Their  secret  record  in  the  court  of  Heaven, 
Thou  com'st.     Methinks  thy  tenderness  would  shroud, 
With  trembling  mantle,  his  infirmities. 
The  purest  natures  are  most  pitiful. 
But  they  who  feel  corruption  strong  within, 
Do  launch  their  darts  most  fiercely  at  the  trace 
Of  their  own  image,  in  another's  breast. 
—  So  the  wild  bull,  that  in  some  mirror  spies 
His  own  mad  visage,  furiously  destroys 
The  frail   reflector.     But  thou,  stainless  star! 
Shalt  stand  a  watchman  on  Creation's  walls, 
While  race  on   race  their  little  circles  mark, 
And  slumber  in  the  tomb.     Still  point  to  all, 
Who  through  this  evening  scene  may  wander  on, 
And  from  yon  mountain's  cold  magnificence 
Turn  to  thy  milder  beauty,  point  to  all, 
The  eternal  love  that  nightly  sends  thee  forth, 
A  silent  teacher  of  its  boundless  love. 


80  LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY. 


FAREWELL     TO     A     RURAL     RESIDENCE 

How  beautiful  it  stands, 

Behind  its  elm-tree's  screen, 
With  simple  attic  cornice  crown'd, 

All  graceful  and  serene! 
Most  sweet,  yet  sad,  it  is, 

Upon  yon  scene  to  gaze, 
And  list  its  inborn  melody, 

The  voice  of  other  days : 

For  there,  as  many  a  year 

Its  varied  chart  unrolPd, 
I  hid  me  in  those  quiet  shades, 

And  call'd  the  joys  of  old ; 
I  call'd  them,  and  they  came 

When  vernal  buds  appear'd, 
Or  where  the  vine-clad  summer  bower 

Its  temple-roof  uprear'd ; 

Or  where  the  o'er-arching  grove 

Spread  forth  its  copses  green, 
While  eye-bright  and  asclepias  rear'd 

Their  untrain'd  stalks  between; 
And  the  squirrel  from  the  boughs 

His  broken  nuts  let  fall, 
And  the  merry,  merry  little  birds 

Sang  at  his  festival. 

Yon  old  forsaken  nests 

Returning  spring  shall  cheer, 
And  thence  the  unfledged  robin  breathe 

His  greeting  wild  and  clear ; 
And  from  yon  clustering  vine, 

That  wreathes  the  casement  round. 
The  humming-bird's  unresting  wings 

Send  forth  a  whirring  sound; 


LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOUKNEY.  8J 

And  where  alternate  springs 

The  lilac's  purple  spire 
Fast  by  its  snowy  sister's  side; 

Or  where,  with  wing  of  fire, 
The  kingly  oriole  glancing  went 

Amid  the  foliage  rare, 
Shall  many  a  group  of  children  tread, 

But  mine  will  riot  be  there. 

Fain  would  I  know  what  forms 

The  mastery  here  shall  keep, 
What  mother  in  yon  nursery  fair 

Rocks  her  young  babes  to  sleep  : 
Yet  blessings  on  the  hallow'd  spot, 

Though  here  no  more   I  stray ; 
And  blessings  on  the  stranger-babes, 

Who  in  those  halls  shall  play. 

Heaven  bless  you,  too,  my  plants, 

And  every  parent  bird, 
That  here,  among  the  woven  boughs, 

Above  its  young  hath  stirr'd. 
I  kiss  your  trunks,  ye  ancient  trees, 

That  often,  o'er  my  head, 
The  blossoms  of  your  flowery  spring 

In  fragrant  showers  have  shed. 

Thou,  too,  of  changeful  rnood, 

I  thank  thee,  sounding  stream, 
That  blent  thine  echo  with  my  thought, 

Or  woke  my  musing  dream. 
I  kneel  upon  the  verdant  turf, 

For  sure  my  thanks  are  due 
To  moss-cup  and  to  clover-leaf, 

That  gave  me  draughts  of  dew. 
F 


82  LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY. 

To  each  perennial  flower, 

Old  tenants  of  the  spot, 
The  broad-leaf 'd  lily  of  the  vale, 

And  the  meek  forget-me-not; 
To  every  daisy's  dappled  brow, 

To  every  violet  blue, 
Thanks !    thanks !    may  each  returning  year 

Your  changeless  bloom  renew. 

Praise  to  our  Father-God, 

High  praise,  in  solemn  lay, 
Alike  for  what  his  hand  hath  given, 

And  what  it  takes  away : 
And  to  some  other  loving  heart 

May  all  this  beauty  be 
The  dear  retreat,  the  Eden-home, 

That  it  hath  been  to  me. 


NIAGARA. 

FLOW  on  for  ever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty.     Yea,  flow  on 
Unfathom'd  and  resistless.     God  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead  :  and  the .  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet.     And  he  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder  power  to  speak  of  Him 
Eternally  —  bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence  —  and  upon  thine  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise. 

Earth  fears  to  lift 

The  insect-trump,  that  tells  her  trifling  joys 
Or  fleeting  triumphs  'mid  the  peal  sublime 
Of  thy  tremendous  hymn.     Proud  Ocean  shrinks 
Back  from  thy  brotherhood,  and  all  his  waves 


LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY.  83 

Retire  abash'd.     For  he  hath  need  to  sleep, 
Sometimes,  like  a  spent  labourer,  calling  home 
His  boisterous  billows  from  their  vexing  play, 
To  a  long,  dreary  calm :  but  thy  strong  tide 
Faints  not,  nor  e'er  with  failing  heart  forgets 
Its  everlasting  lesson,  night  nor  day 
The  morning  stars,  that  hail'd  creation's  birth, 
Heard  thy  hoarse  anthem,  mixing  with  their  song 
Jehovah's  name;  and  the  dissolving  fires, 
That  wait  the  mandate  of  the  day  of  doom 
To  wreck  the  earth,  shall  find  it  deep  inscribed 
Upon  thy  rocky  scroll. 

The  lofty  trees 

That  list  thy  teachings,  scorn  the  lighter  lore 
Of  the  too  fitful  winds ;  while  their  young  leaves 
Gather  fresh  greenness  from  thy  living  spray, 
Yet  tremble  at  the  baptism.     Lo!  yon  birds, 
How  bold  they  venture  near,  dipping  their  wing 
In  all  thy  mist  and  foam.     Perchance  'tis  meet 
For  them  to  touch  thy  garment's  hem,  or  stir 
Thy  diamond  wreath,  who  sport  upon  the  cloud, 
Unblamed,  or  warble  at  the  gate  of  heaven 
Without  reproof.     But,  as  for  us,  it  seems 
Scarce  lawful  with  our  erring  lips  to  talk 
Familiarly  of  thee.     Methinks,  to  trace 
Thine  awful  features,  with  our  pencil's  point, 
Were  but  to  press  on  Sinai. 

Thou  dost  speak 

Alone  of  God,  who  pour'd  thee  as  a  drop 
From  his  right  hand, — bidding  the  soul  that  looks 
Upon  thy  fearful  majesty,  be  still, 
Be  humbly  wrapp'd  in  its  own  nothingness, 
And  lose  itself  in  Him. 


84  LYDIA     HUNT  LEY     SIGOURNEY. 

AUTUMN. 

HAS  it  come,  the  time  to  fade  ? 

And  with  a  murmur'd  sigh, 
The  Maple,  in  his  scarlet  robe, 

Was  the  first  to  make  reply ; 
And  the  queenly  Dahlias  droop'd 

Upon  their  thrones  of  state, 
The  frost-king,  with  his  baleful  kiss, 

Had  well  forestall'd  their  fate. 

Hydrangia,  on  her  telegraph 

A  hurried  signal  traced 
Of  dire  and  dark  conspiracy, 

That  Summer's  realm  menaced ; 
Then  quick  the  proud  exotic  peers 

In  consternation  fled, 
And  refuge  in  their  green-house  sought 

Before  the  day  of  dread. 

The  vine  that  o'er  my  casement  climb'd 

And  cluster'd  day  by  day, 
I  count  its  leaflets  every  morn, 

See,  how  they  fade  away; 
And,  as  they  withering  one  by  one 

Forsake  their  parent  tree, 
I  call  each  sere  and  yellow  leaf 

A  buried  friend  to  me. 

Put  on  thy  mourning,  said  my  soul, 

And,  with  a  tearful  eye, 
Walk  softly  'mid  the  many  graves 

Where  thy  companions  lie. 
The  violet,  like  a  loving  babe, 

When  vernal  suns  were  new, 
That  met  thee  with  a  soft,  blue  eye, 

And  lips  all  bathed  in  dew; 


LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY.  85 

The  lily,  as  a  timid  bride, 

While  summer  suns  were  fair, 
That  put  her  snowy  hand  in  thine, 

To  bless  thee  for  thy  care ; 
The  trim  and  proud  anemone, 

The  daisy  from  the  vale, 
The  purple  lilac  towering  high 

To  guard  his  sister  pale; 

The  ripen'd  rose,  where  are  they  now  ? 

But  from  the  rifled  bower 
A  voice  came  forth,  "  take  heed  to  note 

Thine  own  receding  hour, 
And  let  the  strange  and  silver  hair 

That  o'er  thy  forehead  strays, 
Be  as  a  monitor,  to  tell 

The  autumn  of  thy  days." 

TO     AN     ABSENT     DAUGHTER. 

WHERE  art  thou,  bird  of  song  ? 

Brightest  one  and  dearest? 
Other  groves  among, 

Other  nests  thou  cheerest ; 
Sweet  thy  warbling  skill 

To  each  ear  that  heard  thee, 
But  't  was  sweetest  still 

To  the  heart  that  rearM  thee. 

Lamb,  where  dost  thou  rest  ? 

On  stranger-bosoms  lying  ? 
Flowers,  thy  path  that  drest, 

All  uncropp'd  are  dying; 
Streams  where  thou  didst  roam 

Murmur  on  without  thee, 
Lov'st  thou  still  thy  home  ? 

Can  thy  mother  doubt  thee  ? 
8 


86  LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY. 

Seek  thy  Saviour's  flock, 

To  his  blest  fold  going, 
Seek  that  smitten  rock 

Whence  our  peace  is  flowing; 
Still  should  Love  rejoice, 

Whatsoe'er  betide  thee, 
If  that  Shepherd's  voice 

Evermore  might  guide  thee. 


WILD     FLOWERS     GATHERED     FOR    A     SICK     FRIEND. 

RISE  from  the  dells  where  ye  first,  were  born, 
From  the  tangled  beds  of  the  weed  and  thorn, 
Rise,  for  the  dews  of  the  morn  are  bright, 
And  haste  away,  with  your  eyes  of  light. 

—  Should  the  green-house  patricians,  with  withering  frown, 
On  your  simple  vestments  look  haughtily  down, 
Shrink  not,  for  His  finger  your  heads  hath  bow'd, 
Who  heeds  the  lowly,  and  humbles  the  proud. 

—  The  tardy  spring,  and  the  chilling  sky, 
Hath  meted  your  robes  with  a  miser's  eye, 
And  check'd  the  blush  of  your  blossoms  free ; 
With  a  gentler  friend  your  home  shall  be, 
To  a  kinder  ear  you  may  tell  your  tale 

Of  the  zephyr's  kiss,  and  the  scented  vale : 

Ye  are  charm 'd !  ye  are  charm 'd !  and  your  fragrant  sigh 

Is  health  to  the  bosom  on  which  ye  die. 

SOLITUDE. 

DEEP  Solitude  I  sought.     There  was  a  dell 
Where  woven  shades  shut  out  the  eye  of  day, 
While,  towering  near,  the  rugged  mountains  made 
Dark  hack-ground  'gainst  the  sky. 


LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY.  87 

Thither  I  went, 

And  bade  my  spirit  taste  that  lonely  fount, 
For  which  it  long  had  thirsted  'mid  the  strife 
And  fever  of  the  world. —  I  thought  to  be 
There  without  witness.  —  But  the  violet's  eye 
Look'd  up  to  greet  me,  the  fresh  wild-rose  smiled, 
And  the  young  pendent  vine-flower  kiss'd  my  cheek. 
There  were  glad  voices  too.  —  The  garrulous  brook, 
Untiring,  to  the  patient  pebbles  told 
Its  history.  —  Up  came  the  singing  breeze, 
And  the  broad  leaves  of  the  cool  poplar  spake 
Responsive,  every  one. —  Even  busy  life 
Woke  in  that  dell.     The  dexterous  spider  threw 
From  spray  to  spray  the  silver-tissued  snare. 
The  thrifty  ant,  whose  curving  pincers  pierced 
The  rifled  grain,  toiled  toward  her  citadel. 
To  her  sweet  hive  went  forth  the  loaded  bee, 
While,  from  her  wind-rocked  nest,  the  mother-bird 
Sang  to  her  nurslings. 

Yet  I  strangely  thought 
To  be  alone  and  silent  in  thy  realm, 
Spirit  of  life  and  love!  — It  might  not  be!  — 
There  is  no  solitude  in  thy  domains, 
Save  what  man  makes,  when  in  his  selfish  breast 
He  locks  his  joy,  and  shuts  out  others'  grief. 
Thou  hast  not  left  thyself  in  this  wide  world 
Without  a  witness.     Even  the  desert  place 
Speaketh  thy  name.     The  simple  flowers  and  streams 
Are  social  and  benevolent,  and  he 
Who  holdeth  converse  in  their  language  pure, 
Roaming  among  them  at  the  cool  of  day, 
Shall  find,  like  him  who  Eden's  garden  drest, 
His  Maker  there,  to  teach  his  listening  heart. 


88  LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY. 

THE     HAPPY     FARMER. 

SAW  ye  the  farmer  at  his  plough, 

As  you  were  riding  by  ? 
Or  wearied  'neath  his  noon-day  toil, 

When  summer  suns  were  high  ? 
And  thought  you  that  his  lot  was  hard  ? 

And  did  you  thank  your  God 
That  you,  and  yours,  were  not  condemned 

Thus  like  a  slave  to  plod? 

Come,  see  him  at  his  harvest-home, 

When  garden,  field,  and  tree, 
Conspire  with  flowing  stores  to  fill 

His  barn  and  granary. 
His  healthful  children  gaily  sport 

Amid  the  new-mown  hay, 
Or  proudly  aid,  with  vigorous  arm, 

His  task,  as  best  they  may. 

The  dog  partakes  his  master's  joy, 

And  guards  the  loaded  wain, 
The  feathery  people  clap  their  wings, 

And  lead  their  youngling  train. 
Perchance,  the  hoary  grandsire's  eye 

The  glowing  scene  surveys, 
And  breathes  a  blessing  on  his  race, 

Or  guides  their  evening  praise. 

The  Harvest-Giver  is  their  friend, 

The  Maker  of  the  soil, 
And  Earth,  the  Mother,  gives  them  bread 

And  cheers  their  patient  toil. 
Come,  join  them  round  their  wintry  hearth, 

Their  heartfelt  pleasures  see, 
And  you  can  better  judge  how  blest 

The  farmer's  life  may  be. 


LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY.  89 

THE      LONELY     CHURCH. 

IT  stood  among  the  chestnuts,  its  white  spire 
And  slender  turrets  pointing  where  man's  heart 
Should  oftener  turn.     Up  went  the  wooded  cliffs, 
Abruptly  beautiful,  above  its  head, 
Shutting  with  verdant  screen  the  waters  out, 
That  just  beyond  in  deep  sequester'd  vale 
Wrought  out  their  rocky  passage.     Clustering  roofs 
And  varying  sounds  of  village  industry 
Swell'd  from  its  margin,  while  the  busy  loom, 
Replete  with  radiant  fabrics,  told  the  skill 
Of  the  prompt  artisan. 

But  all  around 

The  solitary  dell,  where  meekly  rose 
That  consecrated  church,  there  was  no  voice 
Save  what  still  Nature  in  her  worship  breathes, 
And  that  unspoken  lore  with  which  the  dead 
Do  commune  with  the  living.     There  they  lay, 
Each  in  his  grassy  tenement,  the  sire 
Of  many  winters,  and  the  noteless  babe 
Over  whose  empty  cradle,  night  by  night, 
Sat  the  poor  mother  mourning,  in  her  tears 
Forgetting  what  a  little  span  of  time 
Did  hold  her  from  her  darling.     And  methought 
How  sweet  it  were,  so  near  the  sacred  house 
Where  we  had  heard  of  Christ,  and  taken  his  yoke, 
And  Sabbath  after  Sabbath  gathered  strength 
To  do  his  will,  thus  to  lie  down  and  rest, 
Close  'neath  the  shadow  of  its  peaceful  walls ; 
And  when  the  hand  doth  moulder,  to  lift  up 
Our  simple  tomb-stone  witness  to  that  faith 
Which  cannot  die. 

Heaven  bless  thee,  Lonely  Church, 
And  daily  mayst  thou  warn  a  pilgrim-band, 
8* 


90  LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY. 

From  toil,  from  cumbrance,  and  from  strife  to  flee, 
And  drink  the  waters  of  eternal  life : 
Still  in  sweet  fellowship  with  trees  and  skies, 
Friend  both  of  earth  and  heaven,  devoutly  stand 
To  guide  the  living  and  to  guard  the  dead. 


NO     CONCEALMENT. 

THINK'ST  thou  to  be  conceal'd,  thou  little  stream, 

That  through  the  lonely  vale  dost  wend  thy  way, 
Loving  beneath  the  darkest  arch  to  glide 

Of  woven  branches,  blent  with  hillocks  gray  ? 
The  mist  doth  track  thee,  and  reveal  thy  course 

Unto  the  dawn,  and  a  bright  line  of  green 
Tinting  thy  marge,  and  the  white  flocks  that  haste 

At  summer  noon  to  taste  thy  crystal  sheen, 
Make  plain  thy  wanderings  to  the  eye  of  day. 

And  then,  thy  smiling  answer  to  the  moon, 
Whose  beams  so  freely  on  thy  bosom  sleep. 

Unfold  thy  secret,  even  to  night's  dull  noon  — 
How  couldst  thou  hope,  in  such  a  world  as  this, 
To  shroud  thy  gentle  path  of  beauty  and  of  bliss  ? 

Think'st  thou  to  be  conceal'd,  thou  little  seed, 

That  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth  art  cast, 
And  there,  like  cradled  infant,  sleep'st  awhile, 

Unmoved  by  trampling  storm  or  thunder  blast  ? 
Thou  bid'st  thy  time ;  for  herald  Spring  shall  come 

And  wake  thee,  all  unwilling  as  thou  art, 
Unhood  thy  eyes,  unfold  thy  clasping  sheath, 

And  stir  the  languid  pulses  of  thy  heart ; 
The  loving  rains  shall  woo  thee,  and  the  dews 

Weep  o'er  thy  bed,  and,  ere  thou  art  aware, 
Forth  steals  the  tender  leaf,  the  wiry  stem, 

The  trembling  bud,  the  flower  that  scents  the  air; 


LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY.  91 

And  soon,  to  all,  thy  ripen'd  fruitage  tells 
The  evil  or  the  good  that  in  thy  nature  dwells. 

Think'st  thou  to  be  conceal'd,  thou  little  thought, 

That  in  the  curtain'd  chamber  of  the  soul 
Dost  wrap  thyself  so  close,  and  dream  to  do 

A  secret  work  ?     Look  to  the  hues  that  roll 
O'er  the  changed  brow  —  the  moving  lips  behold  — 

Linking  thee  unto  speech  —  the  feet  that  run 
Upon  thy  errands,  and  the  deeds  that  stamp 

Thy  lineage  plain  before  the  noonday  sun ; 
Look  to  the  pen  that  writes  thy  history  down 

In  those  tremendous  books  that  ne'er  unclose 
Until  the  day  of  doom,  and  blush  to  see 

How  vain  thy  trust  in  darkness  to  repose, 
Where  all  things  tend  to  judgment.     So,  beware, 
Oh !  erring  human  heart !  what  thoughts  thou  lodgest  there. 


THE     BENEFACTRESS. 

WHO  asks  if  I  remember  thee  ?  or  speak  thy  treasured  name  ? 

Doth  the  frail  rush  forget  the  stream  from  whence  its  green 
ness  came  ? 

Doth  the  wild,  lonely  flower  that  sprang  within  some  rocky 
dell 

Forget  the  first    awakening  smile  that  on  its  bosom  fell  ? 

Did  Israel's  exiled  sons,  when  far  from  Zion's  hill  away, 
Forget  the  high  and    holy  house,  where    first  they  learn'd    to 

pray  ? 

Forget  around  their  Temple's  wreck  to  roam  in  mute  despair, 
And  o'er  its  hallow'd  ashes  pour  a  grief  that  none  might  share  ? 

Remember  thee  ?     Remember  thee  ?  —  though  many  a  year  hath 

fled, 
Since  o'er  thy  pillow  cold  and  low,  the  uprooted  turf  was  spread, 


92  LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY. 

Yet  oft  doth  twilight's  musing  hour  thy  graceful  form  restore, 
And  morning  breathe  the   music-tone,  like  Memnon's  harp  of 
yore. 

The  simple  cap  that  deck'd  thy  brow  is  still  to  Memory 
dear, 

Her  echoes  keep  thy  cherish'd  song  that  lull'd  my  infant  ear; 

The  book,  from  which  my  lisping  tongue  was  by  thy  kind 
ness  taught, 

Gleams  forth,  with  all  its  letter'd  lines,  still  fresh  with  hues 
of  thought. 

The  flowers,  the  dear,  familiar  flowers,  that  in  thy  garden  grew, 
From  which  thy  mantel-vase  was  fill'd  —  methinks,  they  breathe 

anew ; 

Again,  the  whispering  lily  bends,  and  ope  those  lips  of  rose, 
As  if  some  message  of  thy  love,  they  linger'd  to  disclose. 

'T  is  true,  that  more  than  fourscore  years  had  bow'd  thy  beauty 

low, 

And  mingled,  with  thy  cup  of  life,  full  many  a  dreg  of  woe, 
But  yet  thou  hadst  a  better  charm  than  youthful  bloom  hath 

found, 
A  balm  within  thy  chasten'd  heart,  to  heal  another's  wound. 

Remember  thee  ?   Remember  thee  ?  thougli  with  the  blest  on  high 
Thou  hast  a  mansion  of  delight,  unseen  by  mortal  eye, 
Comes  not  thy  wing  to  visit  me,  in  the  deep  watch  of  night, 
When  visions  of  unutter'd  things  do  make  my  sleep  so  bright  ? 

I  feel  thy  love  within  my  breast,  it  nerves  me  strong  and  high, 
As  cheers  the  wanderer  o'er  the  deep  the  pole-star  in  the  sky, 
And  when  my  weary  spirit  quails,  or  friendship's  smile  is  cold, 
1  feel  thine  arm  around  me  thrown,  as  oft  it  was  of  old. 

Remember  thee  !  Remember  thee  !  while  flows  this  purple  tide, 
I  '11  keep  thy  precepts  in  my  heart,  thy  pattern  for  my  guide, 
And,  when  life's  little  journey  ends,  and  light  forsakes  my  eye, 
Come,  hovering  o'er  my  bed  of  pain,  and  teach  me  how  to  die. 


LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY.  93 


THE     LITTLE     HAND. 

THOU  wak'st,  my  baby  boy,  from  sleep, 

And  through  its  silken  fringe 
Thine  eye,  like  violet,  pure  and  deep, 

Gleams  forth  with  azure  tinge. 

With  what  a  smile  of  gladness  meek 

Thy  radiant  brow  is  drest, 
While  fondly  to  a  mother's  cheek 

Thy  lip  and  hand  are  prest! 

That  little  hand !  what  prescient  wit 

Its  history  may  discern. 
When  time  its  tiny  bones  hath  knit 

With  manhood's  sinews  stern  ? 

The  artist's  pencil  shall  it  guide  ? 

Or  spread  the  adventurous  sail  ? 
Or  guide  the  plough  with  rustic  pride, 

And  ply  the  sounding  flail  ? 

Through  music's  labyrinthine  maze, 

With  dexterous  ardour  rove, 
And  weave  those  tender,  tuneful  lays 

That  beauty  wins  from  love  ? 

Old  Coke's  or  Blackstone's  mighty  tome 

With  patient  toil  turn  o'er? 
Or  trim  the  lamp  in  classic  dome, 

Till  midnight's  watch  be  o'er? 

Well  skilled,  the  pulse  of  sickness  press  ? 

Or  such  high  honour  gain 
As,  o'er  the  pulpit  raised,  to  bless 

A  pious  listening  train  ? 


94  LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY. 

Say,  shall  it  find  the  cherish'd  grasp 
Of  friendship's  fervour  cold  ? 

Or,  shuddering,  feel  the  envenom'd  clasp 
Of  treachery's  serpent-fold  ? 

Yet,  oh !  may  that  Almighty  Friend, 
From  whom  existence  came, 

That  dear  and  powerless  hand  defend 
From  deeds  of  guilt  and  shame. 

Grant  it  to  dry  the  tear  of  woe, 
Bold  folly's  course  restrain, 

The  alms  of  sympathy  bestow, 
The  righteous  cause  maintain  — 

Write  wisdom  on  the  wing  of  time, 
Even  'mid  the  morn  of  youth, 

And  with  benevolence  sublime 
Dispense  the  light  of  truth  — 

Discharge  a  just,  an  useful  part 
Through  life's  uncertain  maze, 

Till  coupled  with  an  angel's  heart, 
It  strike  the  lyre  of  praise. 


SILENT     DEVOTION. 

"The  Lord   is  in    his    holy  temple;  — let   all   the  Earth  keep  silence 
before  him.'' 

THE  Lord  is  on  his  holy  throne, 

He  sits  in  kingly  state ; 
Let  those  who  for  his  favour  seek, 

In  humble  silence  wait. 

Your  sorrows  to  his  eye  are  known, 

Your  secret  motives  clear, 
It  needeth  not  the  pomp  of  words 

To  pour  them  on  his  ear. 


LYDIA     HUNTLEY     S1GOURNEY.  95 

Doth  Death  thy  bosom's  cell  invade  ? 

Yield  up  thy  flower  of  grass : 
Swells  the  world's  wrathful  billow  high  ? 

Bow  down,  and  let  it  pass. 

Press  not  thy  purpose  on  thy  God, 

Urge  not  thine  erring  will, 
Nor  dictate  to  the  Eternal  mind, 

Nor  doubt  thy  Maker's  skill.  , 

True  prayer  is  not  the  noisy  sound 

That  clamorous  lips  repeat, 
But  the  deep  silence  of  a  soul 

That  clasps  Jehovah's  feet. 


TO     A     DYING     INFANT. 

Go  to  thy  rest,  my  child ! 

Go  to  thy  dreamless  bed, 
Gentle  and  undefiled, 

With  blessings  on  thy  head  ; 
Fresh  roses  in  thy  hand, 

Buds  on  thy  pillow  laid, 
Haste  from  this  fearful  land, 

Where  flowers  so  quickly  fade. 

Before  thy  heart  might  learn 

In  waywardness  to  stray, 
Before  thy  foot  could  turn 

The  dark  and  downward  way ; 
Ere  sin  might  wound  the  breast, 

Or  sorrow  wake  the  tear, 
Rise  to  thy  home  of  rest, 

In  yon  celestial  sphere. 


96  EYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY. 

Because  thy  smile  was  fair, 

Thy  lip  and  eye  so  bright, 
Because  thy  cradle-care 

Was  such  a  fond  delight, 
Shall  Love,  with  weak  embrace, 

Thy  heavenward  flight  detain? 
No !  Angel,  seek  thy  place 

Amid  yon  cherub-train. 


LINES. 

FROM  a  bright  hearth-stone  of  our  land, 

A  beam  hath  pass'd  away, 
A  smile,  whose  cheering  influence  seem'd 

Like  morning  to  the  day; 
A  sacrificing  spirit 

With  innate  goodness  fraught, 
That  ever  for  another's  weal 

Employ'd  its  fervid  thought. 

That  beam  is  gathered  back  again 

To  the  Pure  Fount  of  flame, 
That  smile  the  Blessed  Source  hath  found. 

From  whence  its  radiance  came, — 
That  spirit  hath  a  genial  clime; 

And  yet,  methinks,  'twill  bend 
Sometimes,  amid  familiar  haunts, 

Beside  the  mourning  friend. 

Yet  better  't  were  to  pass  away, 

Ere  evening  shadows  fell, 
To  wrap  in  chillness,  and  decay, 

What  here  was  loved  so  well; 
And  strew  unwither'd  flowers  around, 

When  the  last  footsteps  part, 
And  leave  in  every  nook  of  home, 

Sweet  memories  for  the  heart. 


LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY.  97 

ADVERTISEMENT     OF     A     LOST     DAY. 

LOST  !    lost !    lost ! 

A  gem  of  countless  price, 
Cut  from  the  living  rock, 

And  graved  in  Paradise. 
Set  round  with  three  times  eight 

Large  diamonds,  clear  and  bright, 
And  each  with  sixty  smaller  ones, 

All  changeful  as  the  light. 

Lost — where  the  thoughtless  throng 

In  fashion's  mazes  wind, 
Where  trilleth  folly's  song, 

Leaving  a  sting  behind ; 
Yet  to  my  hand  'twas  given 

A  golden  harp  to  buy, 
Such  as  the  white-robed  choir  attune 

To  deathless  minstrelsy. 

Lost!    lost!    lost! 

I  feel  all  search  is  vain; 
That  gem  of  countless  cost 

Can  ne'er  be  mine  again; 
I  offer  no  reward, 

For  till  these  heart-strings  sever, 
I  know  that  Heavenrentrusted  gift 

Is  reft  away  for  ever. 

But  when  the  sea  and  land 

Like  burning  scroll  have  fled, 
I'll  see  it  in  His  hand 

Who  judgeth  quick  and  dead, 
And  when  of  scathe  and  loss 

That  man  can  ne'er  repair, 
The  dread  inquiry  meets  my  soul, 

What  shall  it  answer  there? 

G 


98  LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY. 

MEMORY. 

THE  past  she  ruleth.     At  her  wand 

Its  temple-valves  unfold, 
And  from  their  glorious  shrines  descend 

The  mighty  forms  of  old; 
To  her  deep  voice  the  dead  reply, 

Dry  bones  are  clothed  and  live, 
Long-perish'd  garlands  bloom  anew, 

And  buried  joys  revive. 

When  o'er  the  future  many  a  shade 

Like  saddening  twilight  steals, 
Or  the  dimm'd  present  to  the  heart 

Its  vapidness  reveals, 
She  opes  her  casket,  and  a  cloud 

Of  treasured  incense  steams, 
Till  with  a  lifted  heart  we  tread 

The  pleasant  land  of  dreams. 

Make  friends  of  potent  Memory, 

Oh  young  man,  in  thy  prime, 
And  store  with  jewels  rich  and  rare 

Her  hoard  for  hoary  time; 
For  if  thou  mockest  her  with  weeds, — 

A  trifler  'mid  her  bowers, — 
She  '11  drop  their  poison  on  thy  soul 

'Mid  life's  disastrous  hours. 

Make  friends  of  potent  Memory 

Oh  Maiden  in  thy  bloom, 
And  bind  her  closely  to  thy  heart 

Before  the  days  of  gloom  ; 
For  sorrow  softeneth  into  joy 

Beneath  her  touch  sublime, 
And  she  celestial  robes  can  weave 

From  the  frail  threads  of  time. 


J 


LYDIA     HUNTLEY     SIGOURNEY.  99 


DEW-DROPS. 

"FATHER,  there  are  no  dew-drops  on  my  rose: 
I  thought  to  find  them,  but  they  all  are  gone. 
Was  Night  a  niggard  ?     Or  did  cunning  Dawn 
Steal  those  bright  diamonds  from  the  slumbering  Day  ?" 
—  The  father  answer'd  not,  but  waved  his  hand, 
For  the  soft  falling  of  a  summer  shower 
Made  quiet  music  'mid  the  quivering  leaves, 
And  through  the  hollows  of  the  freshen'd  turf 
Drew  lines  like  silver. 

Then  a  bow  sprang  forth, 
Spanning  the  skies. 

"  Seest  thou  yon  glorious  hues, 
Violet  and  gold  ?     The  dew-drops  tremble  there, 
That  from  the  bosom  of  thy  rose  had  fled, 
My  precious  child.     Read  thou  the  lesson  well, 
That  what  is  pure  and  beautiful  on  earth, 
Shall  glow  in  Heaven." 

He  knew  not  that  he  spake 
Prophetic  words.     But  ere  the  infant  moon 
SwelPd  to  a  perfect  orb  its  crescent  pale, 
That  gentle  soul  which  on  the  parent's  breast 
Had  sparkled  as  a  dew-drop,  was  exhaled, 
To  mingle  'mid  the  brightness  of  the  skies. 


ANNA  MAEIA  WELLS. 

Miss  FOSTER,  now  Mrs.  Wells,  was  born  about  the  year  1794,  in 
Gloucester,  Massachusetts;  but  was  educated  in  Boston,  and  has  lived 
there  ever  since.  She  is  a  highly  accomplished  woman;  possesses  a 
well-furnished  mind,  and  as  admirable  a  talent  for  drawing  and  music 
as  for  poetry.  She  was  also,  when  young,  no  less  distinguished  for  her 
exquisite  beauty,  than  for  her  genius  and  accomplishments.  Her  poems 
were  published  in  a  volume  in  1831,  but  are  not  so  generally  known 
as  they  deserve  to  be.  The  specimens  we  subjoin  are  delightful  for 
their  touching  simplicity,  purity  of  thought,  and  fervour  of  feeling. 
Mrs.  Wells  is  a  sister  of  Mrs.  Frances  S.  Osgood ;  who,  when  a  child, 
was  her  loved  and  loving  pupil,  as  we  gather  from  a  verse  in  the  fol 
lowing  sweet  strain  of  pleasant  but  half-mournful  memory. 


MY     CLOSET. 

WITHIN  my  chamber's  bounds  it  lay; 
For  years  it  was  my  haunt  by  day; 
There  half  the  summer  night  I'd  stay, 

With  lingering  pleasure. 
I  loved  it  chiefly  that  'twas  mine; 
There  first  my  fancy  learn'd  to  twine 
Poetic  flowers,  —  not  quite  divine, — 

A  hidden  treasure. 

It  was  the  quietest  of  nooks ;  — 
How  well  I  can.  recall  its  looks ! 
One  side  just  held  my  hoard  of  books, 
A  dear  deposit; 

(100) 


ANNA     MARIA     WELLS. 

One  window,  veil'd  by  curtains  fair, 
Gave  entrance  to  the  summer  air; 
Beside  it  stood  my  desk  and  chair : 
My  pretty  closet. 

When  memory's  harp  had  ceased  to  ring, 

And  vainly  I  essay'd  the  string, 

There  thought  could  oft  its  music  bring, 

With  sweet  revealing. 
And  there  at  lonely  hour  of  night, 
I  used  to  watch  the  moonbeams  bright, 
Throwing  their  wreaths  of  silver  light 

Along  the  ceiling. 

In  summer,  when  the  fields  were  green, 
And  bending  boughs  my  window-screen, 
Ah  me !  how  happy  I  have  been, 

Free  from  intrusion; 
While  oft  of  flattery's  pleasing  snare, 
And  oft  of  hope's  delusions  fair, 
Reflection  taught  me  to  beware, 

In  that  seclusion. 

There,  with  one  friend,  delightful  flew 
Hours  of  sweet  converse  not  a  few ; 
The  snug  retreat,  'twould  hold  but  two, 

So  narrow  was  it; 
And  yet  a  cozy  place  to  sit, 
Though  leaning  back  the  shelves  we  hit, 
And  forward  scarce  avoided  it; 

My  little  closet. 

It  was  the  homestead  of  my  mind; 

For  there  its  thoughts  were  first  combined, 

And  elsewhere  1  shall  never  find 

Just  such  another! 
9* 


101 


102  ANNA     MARIA     WELLS. 

'T  was  there  I  ran  ,and  closed  the  door 
'Gainst  one  who  ill  such  usage  bore, 
A  playful  child,  —  ah  !  now  no  more  — 
My  petted  brother! 

And  there  with  mingled  joy  and  pain, 
To  con  their  tasks  and  con  again, 
I  taught  my  little  sisters  twain, 

For  ever  busy  ; 

Just  out  the  closet  door  they  sat, 
And  mischief  oft  they  would  be  at; 
1  loved  them  dearly  for  all  that, 

Fanny  and  Lizzie ! 

There,  when  my  heart  was  sick  with  grief, 
Finding  its  youthful  joys  so  brief, 
In  prayer  I  sought  a  sure  relief, 

Denied  me  never. 

Ah !  sad  to  my  young  heart  the  day, 
When,  lingering  still  with  fond  delay, 
I  wept,  and  turn'd  me  thence  away, 

Alas !  for  ever. 

MORNI  FT  G. 

OF  all  his  starry  honours  shorn, 

Away  old  night  is  stealing; 
And  upward  springs  the  laughing  morn, 

A  joyous  life  revealing. 

Blue-eyed  she  comes  with  tresses  spread, 
And  breath  than  incense  sweeter; 

The  mountains  glow  beneath  her  tread, 
Light  clouds  float  on  to  meet  her. 

The  tall  corn  briskly  stirs  its  sheaves ; 

A  thousand  buds  have  burst 
The  soft  green  calyx,  that  their  leaves 

To  greet  her  may  be  first. 


ANNA     MARIA     WELLS. 

The  flowers,  that  lay  all  night  in  tears, 

Look  upward  one  by  one ; 
And  pearls  each  tiny  petal  bears, 

An  offering  to  the  sun. 

With  beads  the  trembling  grass  is  dress'd,— 
Each  thin  spire  hath  its  string, 

Scattered  in  mist,  as  from  her  nest 
The  ground-bird  flaps  her  wing. 

The  lake  obeys  the  zephyr's  will, 

While,  as  by  fingers  press'd, 
The  bending  locust-buds  distil 

Their  sweetness  o'er  its  breast. 

With  busy  sounds  the  valley  rings  ; 

The  ploughman  yokes  his  team; 
The  fisher  trims  his  light  boat's  wings, 

And  skims  the  brightening  stream. 

The  gentle  kine  forsake  the  shed, 
And  wait  the  milk-maid's  call; 

The  frighted  squirrel  hears  her  tread, 
And  scuds  along  the  wall. 

Scattering  the  night-clouds  as  in  scorning, 
Bright  pour  the  new-born  rays; 

There's  more  of  life  in  one  sweet  morning, 
Than  in  a  thousand  days. 

TO     MARY,     SLEEPING. 

SLEEP  on,  sleep  on !    while  yet  thy  sleep  is  sweet, 
Nor  scared  by  phantoms  of  world-weary  care, 
False  pleasure,  fear,  or  still  delusive  hope  ! 
Sweeter  the  slumber  that,  perchance,  for  thee 
Thy  guardian  angel  tints  with  dreamy  bliss. 
That  cherub-smile  speaks  not  of  gross  delight; 


103 


104  ANNA     MARIA     WELLS. 

And  haply  on  thy  sinless  vision  now 
Celestial  forms  may  gleam,  like  morning  mists 
That  yet  shall  brighten  into  perfect  day; 
Or  to  thy  tender  organs  suited,  soft 
As  breath  of  angels,  music  floats  around ;  — 
Melodious  whisperings,  that  half  unfold 
The  harmonies  enfranchised  spirits  know. 
Then,  if  such  visions  do  thy  slumbers  bless, 
Sleep  on,  dear,  sinless,  happy  dreamer,  sleep; 
For  I  would  not  the  short-lived  charm  disturb, 
Not  e'en  to  meet  thine  eye's  sad  earnestness; 
Those  eyes  that  shed  upon  thy  baby  face 
A  tender,  holy,  melancholy  light, — 
Like  seraph  Pity  guarding  Innocence. 
And  yet  more  radiant  shall  their  lustre  be 
When  strong  by  struggle,  eloquent  by  thought, 
The  mind  shall  dart  its  deeper  meanings  thence; 
Or  pure  devotion's  wrapt  intensity 
Look  through  their  upward  light. 

How  soft  the  touch 
Of  thy  dark  silky  hair!     May  vanity, 
That  feasts  upon,  and  saps  the  fairest  flowers, 
Blight  not  thy  spirit's  sweet  development. 
But  may  thy  heart  be  artless  as  thy  smile ; 
Like  those  clear  eyes  thy  soul  be  luminous ; 
And  when,  at  last,  upspringing  to  its  God, 
Be  freed  from  earthly  stain,  and  rise  to  Heaven 
Sweet  as  the  balmy  breath  of  infant  sleep. 


"WE'LL   NEVER    PART   AGAIN." 

AND  say'st  thou  so  ?     And  canst  thou  lift 

That  veil  in  mercy  cast 
Between  thy  destiny  and  thee, 

The  future  and  the  past? 


ANNA     MARIA     WELLS.  105 

Say,  is  it  Passion's  breathing  vow  ? 

Or  Friendship's  promise  given  ? 
Or  utterance  of  paternal  love, 

The  purest  under  heaven  ? 

Oh !    if  thy  other  self  be  now 

Beside  thee,  —  if  thy  own 
That  one  loved  hand  may  clasp;    thy  ear 

Drink  in  that  one  loved  tone; 

Enjoy  the  fleeting  hour,  —  forget 

That  earth  has  change  or  pain ;  — 
But  dare  not  whisper  in  thy  bliss, 

"  We  '11  never  part  again." 

Love's  roses  droop  ere  morn  hath  fled; 

The  violet  smiles  through  tears ; 
The  tall  tree  scatters  to  the  blast 

The  brightest  leaf  it  bears. 

Each  day,  each  hour,  love's  nearest  ties 

The  hand  of  death  may  sever ; 
And   they  who  live  and  love  the  best, 

Fate  oft  divides  for  ever. 

The  friend  so  closely  link'd  to  thee, 

By  faith  so  fondly  plighted, — 
The  world's  cold  cautions  intervene, 

And  ye  are  disunited. 

The  most  impassion'd  love  that  warms 

The  purest,  truest  heart, 
Or  time,  or  grief,  or  wrong  may  change, 

Aud  break  the  links  apart. 

Thy  children  —  o'er  their  opening  minds 

Watch,  watch  with  heart  untired; 
The  ceaseless  vigil  keep,  by  hope, 

By  love,  by  Heaven  inspired. 


106  ANNA     MARIA     WELLS. 

Oh !  beautiful  the  daily  toil 
To  work  that  priceless  mine ! 

But  deemest  thou  its  golden  ore 
Refined  shall  still  be  thine  ? 

Dreamer!     Those  laughing  boys  that  round 
Thy  hearth  unconscious  play, — 

Voices  already  in  their  hearts 
Are  whispering,  u  Come  away  f" 

Though  warmly  smile  beam  back  to  smile, 
And  answering  heart  to  heart, 

They  meet  in  gladness  who  too  oft 
Have  only  met  to  part. 

Then  bind  not  earthly  ties  too  close, 
But  hope  let  Heaven  sustain ; 

There  and  there  only  mayst  thou  say, 
"  We  '11  never  part  again  !" 


THE      SEA-BIRD. 

SEA-BIRD  !  haunter  of  the  wave, 
Happy  o'er  its  crest  to  hover ; 

Half-engulph'd  where  yawns  the  cave 
Billows  form  in  rolling  over. 

Sea-bird !  seeker  of  the  storm, 
In  its  shriek  thou  dost  rejoice; 

Sending  from  thy  bosom  warm, 
Answer  shriller  than  its  voice. 

Bird  of  nervous  wing  and  bright, 
Flashing  silvery  to  the  sun, 

Sporting  with  the  sea-foam   white, 
When  will  thy  wild  course  be  done? 


ANNA     MARIA     WELLS.  107 

Whither  tends  it?     Has  the  shore 

No  alluring  haunt  for  thee  ? 
Nook  with  tangled  vines  run  o'er, 

Scented  shrub,  or  leafy  tree  ? 

]s  the  purple  sea-weed  rarer 

Than  the  violet  of  spring? 
Is  the  snowy  foam- wreath  fairer 

Than  the  apple's  blossoming? 

Shady  grove  and  sunny  slope, 

Seek  but  these,  and  thou  shalt  meet 
Birds  not  born  with  storm  to  cope, 

Hermits  of  retirement  sweet. 

Where  no  winds  too  rudely  swell, 

But,  in  whispers  as  they  pass, 
Of  the  fragrant  flow'ret  tell, 

Hidden  in  the  tender  grass. 

There,  the  mock-bird  sings  of  love ; 

There,  the  robin  builds  his  nest; 
There,  the  gentle-hearted  dove. 

Brooding,  takes  her  blissful  rest. 

Sea-bird,  stay  thy  rapid  flight :  — • 

Gone!  —  where  dark  waves  foam  and  dash, 

Like  a  lone  star  on  the  night 

From  afar  his  white  wings  flash ! 

He  obeyeth  God's  behest : 

Each  and  all  some  mission  fill ; 
Some,  the  tempest  born  to  breast, 

Some,  to  worship  and  be  still. 

If  to  struggle  with  the  storm 

On  life's  ever-changing  sea, 
Where  cold  mists  enwrap  the  form, 

My  harsh  destiny  must  be ; 


108  ANNA     MARIA     WELLS. 

Sea-bird !  thus  may  I  abide 
Cheerful  the  allotment  given; 

And  above  the  ruffled  tide 

Soar  at  last,  like  thee,  to  Heaven! 

THE     WHITE      HARE. 

IT  was  the  Sabbath  eve  —  we  went, 
My  little  girl  and  J,  intent 

The  twilight  hour  to  pass, 
Where  we  might  hear  the  waters  flow, 
And  scent  the  freighted  winds  that  blow 

Athwart  the  vernal  grass. 

In  darker  grandeur,  as  the  day 
Stole  scarce  perceptibly  away, 

The  purple  mountain  stood, 
Wearing  the  young  moon  as  a  crest: 
The  sun,  half  sunk  in  the  far  west, 

Seem'd  mingling  with  the  flood. 

The  cooling  dews  their  balm  distill'd ; 
A  holy  joy  our  bosoms  thrill'd ; 

Our  thoughts  were  free  as  air; 
And  by  one  impulse  moved,  did  we 
Together  pour,  instinctively, 

Our  songs  of  gladness  there. 

The  green-wood  waved  its  shade  hard  by, 
While  thus  we  wove  our  harmony : 

Lured  by  the  mystic  strain, 
A  snow-white  hare,  that  long  had  been 
Peering  from  forth  her  covert  green, 

Came  bounding  o'er  the  plain. 

Her  beauty  'twas  a  joy  to  note, 
The  pureness  of  her  downy  coat, 
Her  wild,  yet  gentle  eye, 


ANNA     MARIA     WELLS.  109 

The  pleasure  that,  despite  her  fear, 
Had  led  the  timid  thing  so  near, 
To  list  our  minstrelsy ! 

All  motionless,  with  head  inclined, 
She  stood,  as  if  her  heart  divined 

The  impulses  of  ours, — 
Till  the  last  note  had  died,  and  then 
Turn'd  half-reluctantly  again, 

Back  to  her  green-wood  bowers. 

Once  more  the  magic  sounds  we  tried  — 
Again  the  hare  was  seen  to  glide 

From  out  her  sylvan  shade; 
Again  —  as  joy  had  given  her  wings, 
Fleet  as  a  bird  she  forward  springs 

Along  the  dewy  glade. 

Go,  happy  thing!  disport  at  will, — • 
Take  thy  delight  o'er  vale  and  hill, 

Or  rest  in  leafy  bower : 
The  harrier  may  beset  thy  way, 
The  cruel  snare  thy  feet  betray! 

Enjoy  thy  little  hour! 

We  know  not,  and  we  ne'er  may  know, 
The  hidden  springs  of  joy  and  woe 

That  deep  within  thee  lie. 
The  silent  workings  of  thy  heart  — 
They  almost  seem  to  have  a  part 

With  our  humanity! 

THE      FUTURE. 

THE  flowers,  the  many  flowers 
That  all  along  the  smiling  valley  grew, 

While  the  sun  lay  for  hours, 
Kissing  from  ofT  their  drooping  lids  the  dew ; 
10 


110  ANNA     MARIA     WELLS. 

They,  to  the  summer  air 
No  longer  prodigal,  their  sweet  breath  yield ; 

Vainly,  to  bind  her  hair, 
The  village  maiden  seeks  them  in  the  field. 

The  breeze,  the  gentle  breeze 
That  wander'd  like  a  frolic  child  at  play, 

Loitering  'mid  blossomM  trees, 
Trailing  their  stolen  sweets  along  its  way, 

No  more  adventuresome, 
Its  whisperM  love  is  to  the  violet  given; 

The  boisterous  North  has  come, 
And  scared  the  sportive  trifler  back  to  heaven. 

The  brook,  the  limpid  brook 
That  prattled  of  its  coolness  as  it  went 

Forth  from  its  rocky  nook, 
Leaping  with  joy  to  be  no  longer  pent, — 

Its  pleasant  song  is  hush'd ;  — 
The  sun  no  more  looks  down  upon  its  play;  — 

Freely,  where  once  it  gush'd, 
The  mountain  torrent  drives  its  noisy  way. 

The  hours,  the  youthful  hours, 
When  in  the  cool  shade  we  were  wont  to  lie, 

Idling  with  fresh  cull'd  flowers, 
In  dreams  that  ne'er  could  know  reality ;  — > 

Fond  hours,  but  half  enjoy'd, 
Like  the  sweet  summer  breeze  they  pass'd  away, 

And  dear  hopes  -were  destroy'd, 
Like  buds  that  die  before  the  noon  of  day. 

Young  life,  young  turbulent  life, 
If,  like  the  stream,  it  take  a  wayward  course, 

'Tis  lost  'mid  folly's  strife, — 
O'erwhelm'd,  at  length,  by  passion's  curbless  force. 


ANNA     MARIA     WELLS.  Ill 

Nor  deem  youth's  buoyant  hours 
For  idle  hopes  or  useless  musings  given : 

Who  dreams  away  his  powers, 
The  reckless  slumberer  shall  not  wake  to  heaven. 


TO     THE      WH  I  P  P  OOR  WI  L  L. 

THE  shades  of  eve  are  gathering  slowly  round, 
And  silence  hangs  o'er  meadow,  grove,  and  hill, 

Save  one  lone  voice,  that,  with  continuous  sound, 
Calls  through  the  deep'ning  twilight — Whippoorwill. 

Faintly  is  heard  the  whispering  mountain  breeze ; 

Faintly  the  rushing  brook  that  turn'd  the  mill ; 
Hush'd  is  the  song  of  birds  —  the  hum  of  bees ;  — 

The  hour  is  all  thine  own,  sad    Whippoorwill ! 

No  more  the  woodman's  axe  is  heard  to  fall ; 

No  more  the  ploughman  sings  with  rustic  skill ; 
As  if  earth's  echoes  woke  no  other  call, 

Again,  and  yet  again,  comes    Whippoorwill. 

Alas  !  enough !  before,  my  heart  was  sad ; 

Sweet  bird !  thou  mak'st  it  sadder,  sadder  still. 
Enough  of  mourning  has  my  spirit  had  ;• 

I  would  not  hear  thee  mourn,  poor   Whippoorwill. 

Thoughts  of  my  distant  home  upon  me  press, 
And  thronging  doubts,  and  fears  of  coming  ill ; 

My  lone  heart  feels  a  deeper  loneliness, 

Touch'd  with  that  plaintive  burthen — WhippoorwilL 

Sing  to  the  village  lass,  whose  happy  home 
Lies  in  yon  quiet  vale,  behind  the  hill ; 

But,  doorn'd  far,  far  from  all  I  love  to  roam, 
Sing  not  to  me,  oh  gentle   Whippoorwill. 


112  ANNA     MARIA     WELLS. 

Loved  ones !  my  children !     Ah,  they  cannot  hear 
My  voice  that  calls  to  them !     An  answer  shrill, 

A  shrill,  unconscious  answer,  rises  near, 
Repeating,  still  repeating   Whippoorwill ! 

Another  name  my  lips  would  breathe;  —  but  then 
Such  tender  memories  all  my  bosom  fill, 

Back  to  my  sorrowing  breast  it  sinks  again ! 

Hush,  or  thou  'It  break  my  heart,  sad   Whippoorwill  ! 


HOPE. 

THERE  sits  a  woman  on  the  brow 

Of  yonder  rocky  height ; 
There,  gazing  o'er  the  waves  below, 

She  sits  from  morn  till  night. 

She  heeds  not  how  the  mad  waves  leap 

Along  the  rugged  shore ; 
She  looks  for  one  upon  the  deep, 

She  never  may  see  more. 

As  morning  twilight  faintly  gleams, 

Her  shadowy  form  I  trace  ; 
Wrapt   in    the    silvery  mist,  she  seems 

The  Genius  of  the  place ! 

Far  other  once  was  Rosalie ; 

Her  smile  was  glad,    her  voice, 
Like  music  o'er  a  summer  sea, 

Said  to  the  heart,  —  "rejoice!" 

O'er  her  pure  thoughts  did  sorrow  fling 
Perchance  a  shade,  't  would  pass, 

Lightly  as  glides  the  breath  of  Spring 
Along  the  bending  grass. 


ANNA     MARIA     WELLS.  113 

A  sailor's  bride  't  was  hers  to  be :  — 

Wo  to  the  faithless  main  ! 
Nine  summers  since  he  went  to  sea, 

And  ne'er  returned  again. 

But  long,  where  all  is  wreck'd  beside, 

And  every  joy  is  chased, 
Long,  long  will  lingering  Hope  abide 

Amid  the  dreary  waste! 

Nine  years  —  though  all  had  given  him  o'er, 

Her  spirit  doth  not  fail ; 
And  still  she  waits  along  the  shore 

The  never-coming  sail. 

On  that  high  rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 

Ever  she  sits,  as  now ; 
The  dews  have  damp'd  her  flowing  hair, 

The  sun  has  scorch'd  her  brow. 

And  every  fai-off  sail  she  sees, 

And  every  passing  cloud, 
Or  white-wing'd  sea-bird,  on  the  breeze, 

She  calls  to  it  aloud. 


The  sea-bird  answers  to  her  cry ; 

The  cloud,  the  sail,  float  on ; 
The  hoarse  wave  mocks  her  misery, 

Yet  is  her  hope  not  gone. 

It  cannot  go;  —  with  that  to  part, 
So  long,  so  fondly  nursed, 

So  mingled  with  her  faithful  heart; 
That  heart  itself  would  burst. 

10*  H 


114  ANNA.     MARIA    WELLS. 

When  falling  dews  the  clover  steep, 
And  birds  are  in  their  nest, 

And  flower-buds  folded  up  to  sleep, 
And  ploughmen  gone  to  rest; 

Down  the  rude  track  her  feet  have  worn. 
There  scarce  the  goat  may  go, — 

Poor  Rosalie,  with  look  forlorn, 
Is  seen  descending  slow. 

But  when  the  gray  morn  tints  the  sky, 
And  lights  that  lofty  peak, — 

With  a  strange  lustre  in  her  eye, 
A  fever  in  her  cheek, 

Again  she  goes,  untired,  to  sit 
And  watch  the  livelong  day ; 

Nor  till  the  star  of  eve  is  lit, 
E'er  turns  her  steps  away. 

Hidden,  and  deep,  and  never  dry, 

Or  flowing,  or  at  rest, 
A  living  spring  of  hope  doth  lie 

In  every  human  breast. 

All  else  may  fail  that  soothes  the  heart, 
All,  save  that  fount  alone; 

With  that  and  life  at  once  we  part, 
For  life  and  hope  are  one! 


CAROLINE  GILMAN. 

WHO,  that  has  over  read  the  Recollections  of  a  Southern  Matron,  with 
its  wise  clear  thought,  its  delicate  wit,  its  unaffected  pathos,  its  fresh 
descriptions,  and  its  vividly-drawn  characters,  but  loves  the  name  of 
Mrs.  Caroline  Oilman  1  Not  we,  assuredly.  We  must  therefore  be 
permitted  to  pay  a  warm  tribute  of  gratitude  for  that  most  charming 
book.  Mrs.  Gilman,  formerly  Miss  Howard,  was  born  in  Boston,  in 
the  year  1794.  She  married  Dr.  Samuel  Gilman,  a  minister  of  a 
Unitarian  church  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  in  1819;  and  has  resided  ever 
since  in  that  city,  where  both  are  distinguished  for  their  high  intellec 
tual  attainments,  and  venerated  for  their  moral  excellencies.  For  seven 
years  Mrs.  Gilman  edited  a  literary  gazette,  called  The  Southern  Rose. 
Her  published  works  are,  Recollections  of  a  New-England  House 
keeper;  Recollections  of  a  Southern  Matron;  Tales  and  Ballads,- 
Love's  Progress  ;  Letters  of  Eliza  Wilkinson;  Stories  and  Poems  for 
Children;  Poetry  of  Travelling  in  the  United  States,-  Oracles  from 
the  Poets ;  The  Sibyl ,-  and  a  volume  of  poetry  now  in  the  press,  called, 
Verses  of  a  Life-time.  Her  poems  are  unaffected  and  sprightly  ;  in 
spired  by  warm  domestic  affection,  and  pure  religious  feeling. 


MY     PIAZZA. 

MY  piazza,  my  piazza!    some  boast  their  lordly  halls, 
Where  soften'd'  gleams  of  curtain'd    light  on   golden    treasure 

falls, 

Where  pictures  in  ancestral  rank  look  stately  side  by  side, 
And  forms  of  beauty  and  of  grace  move  on  in  living  pride ! 

I  envy  not  the  gorgeousness  that  decks  the  crowded  room, 
Where  vases  with  exotic  flowers  throw  out  their  sick  perfume, 
With  carpets  where  the  slipper'd  foot  sinks  soft  in  downy  swell, 
And  mirror'd  walls    reflect  the  cheek  where   dimpled   beauties 
dwell. 

(115) 


116  CAROLINE     GILMAN. 

My  fresh  and  cool  piazza!    I  seek  the  healthy  breeze 
That  circles  round  thy  shading  vines,  and  softly-waving  trees, 
With  step  on  step  monotonous,  I  tread  thy  level  floor, 
And  muse  upon  the  sacred  past,  or  calmly  look  before. 

My  bright  and  gay  piazza  !    I  love  thee  in  the  hour, 

When  morning  decks  with  dewy  gems  the  wavy  blade  and 
flow'r, 

When  the  bird  alights,  and  sings  his  song,  upon  the  neigh 
bouring  tree, 

As  if  his  notes  were  only  made  to  cheer  himself  and  me. 

My  cool  and  fresh  piazza !    I  love  thee  when  the  sun 
His  long  and  fervid  circuit  o'er  the  burning  earth  has  run ; 
I  joy  to  watch  his  parting  light  loom  upward  to  the  eye, 
And  view  the  pencil-touch  shade  off,  and  then  in  softness  die. 

My  sociable  piazza !    I  prize  thy  quiet  talk, 
When  arm  in  arm  with  one  I  love,  I  tread  the  accustomed  walk  ; 
Or  loll  within  our  rocking-chairs,  not  over  nice  or  wise, 
And  yield  the  careless  confidence,  where  heart  to  heart  replies. 

My  piazza,  my  piazza !   my  spirit  oft  rejoices, 

When  from    thy  distant   nooks  I  hear  the    sound   of  youthful 

voices  ; 

The  careless  jest,  the  bursting  laugh,  the  carol  wildly  gay, 
Or  cheerful  step,  with  exercise  that  crowns  the  studious  day. 

My  beautiful  piazza !    thou  hast  thy  nightly  boast, 
When  brightly  in  the  darken'd  sky  appear  the  heavenly  host; 
Arcturus  glows  more  brilliantly  than  monarchs'  blazing  gem, 
And  fair  Corona  sits  enshrined,  like  angels'  diadem. 

My  loved  and  lone  piazza!   the  dear  ones  have  departed, 
And   each    their   nightly  pillow    seek,  the   young   and   happy- 
hearted, 

I  linger  still,  a  solemn  hush  is  brooding  o'er  the  skies, 
A  solemn  hush  upon  the  earth  in  tender  silence  lies. 


CAROLINE     GILMAN.  117 

I  feel  as  if  a  spirit's  wing  came  near  and  brush'd  my  heart, 
And  bade,  before  I  yield  to  sleep,  earth's  heavy  cares  depart; 
Father,  in  all  simplicity,  I  breathe  the  prayer  I  love, 
Oh !  watch  around  my  slumbering  form,  or  take  my  soul  above ! 


A      SKETCH. 

THE  gay  saloon  was  throng'd  with  grace  and  beauty, 
While  astral  rays  shone  out  on  lovely  eyes, 
And  lovely  eyes  look'd  forth  a  clearer  beam. 

Fashion  was  there  —  not  in  her  flaunting  robes, 
Lavish  of  charms  —  but  that  fair  sprite  who  moulds 
All  to  her  touch,  yet  leaves  it  nature  still. 

The  light  young  laugh  came  reed-like  on  the  ear, 
Touching  the  cord  of  joy,  electrical; 
And  smiles  too  graceful  for  a  sound  passed  out 
From  ruby  lips,  like  perfume  from  a  flower. 

Catching  the  gracious  word  of  courtesy, 
The  listening  maid  turn'd  to  the  speaker's  eye; 
And  bowing  in  his  honour'd  lowliness, 
His  manly  head  inclined  to  her  slight  form. 

There  was  a  hum  of  social  harmony, 
u  Like  the  soft  south"  upon  the  rushing  seas. 
Between  its  pauses  burst  the  harp's  rich  tone, 
Pour'd  out  by  one  who  fill'd  the  poet's  eye 
With  fond  fruition  of  his  classic  dream. 

A  voice  was  there  —  clear  and  distinct  it  rose, 
Like  evening's  star  when  other  stars  are  dim ; 
Clear,  sweet  and  lonely,  as   that  southern  bird's 
Who  on  far  turrets  trills  his  midnight  lay. 
In  the  heart's  cavern,  deep  that  voice  went  down, 
Waking  up  echoes  of  the  silent  past. 

O  woman  !  lovely  in  thy  beauty's  power ! 
Thrice  lovely,  when  we  know  that  thou  canst  turn 
To  duty's  path,  and  tread  it  with  a  smile. 


118  CAROLINE     GILMAN. 


"HE     FOR    GOD     ONLY,     SHE     FOR     GOD     IN     HIM. 

WHEN  Pleasure  gilds  thy  passing  hours, 
And  Hope  enwreaths  her  fairy  flowers, 
And  Love  appears  with  playful  hand 
To  steal  from  Time  his  falling  sand, 
Oh,  then  I'll  smile  with  thee. 

When  nature's  beauties  bless  thy  sight, 
And  yield  a  thrill  of  soft  delight; 
When  morning  glories  greet  thy  gaze, 
Or  veiling  twilight  still  delays, 
Then  I'll  admire  with  thee. 

When  the  far-clustering  stars  unroll 
Their  banner'd  lights  from  pole  to  pole, 
Or  when  the  moon  glides  queenly  by, 
Looking  in  silence  on  thine  eye, 
I'll  gaze  on  Heaven  with  thee. 

When  music  with  her  unsought  lay 
Awakes  the  household  holiday, 
Or  Sabbath  notes  in  concert  strong 
Lift  up  the  sacred  wings  of  song, 

I'll  sing  those  strains  with  thee. 

But  should  misfortune  hovering  nigh 
Wrest  from  thy  aching  heart  a  sigh, 
Or,  with  an  aspect  chill  and  drear, 
Despondence  draw  the  unbidden  tear, 
Oh,  then,  I'll  weep  with  thee. 

Should  poverty  with  withering  hand 
Wave  o'er  thy  head  his  care-wrought  wand, 
And  ope  within  thy  soul  the  void 
That  haunts  a  mind  with  hopes  destroy'd, 
I'll  share  that  pang  with  thee. 


CAROLINE     GILMAN.  119 

When  youth  and  youthful  pleasures  fly, 
And  earth  is  fading  on  thine  eye, 
When  life  has  lost  its  early  charm, 
And  all  thy  wish  is  holy  calm, 
I'll  love  that  calm  with  thee. 

And  when  unerring  death,  at  last, 
Comes  rushing  on  time's  fatal  blast, 
And  naught  (not  e'en  my  love)  can  save 
Thy  form  from  the  encroaching  grave, 
I'll  share  that  grave  with  thee. 

And  when  thy  spirit  soars  above, 
Wrapt  in  the  foldings  of  God's  love, 
Is  it  too  much  to  ask  of  Heaven, 
That  some  low  seat  may  there  be  given, 
Where  I  can  bow  near  thee  ? 


MY      GARDEN. 

MY  garden,  fresh  and  beautiful !  —  the  spell  of  frost  is  o'er, 
And  earth  sends  out  its  varied  leaves,  a  rich  and  lavish  store ; 
My  heart  too  breaks  its  wintry  chain,  with  stem  and  leaf  and 

flower, 
And  glows  in  hope  and  happiness  amid  the  spring-tide  hour. 

'Tis  sunset  in  my  garden  —  the  flowers  and  buds  have  caught 
Bright    revelations    from    the    skies    in    wondrous    changes 

wrought ; 

And  as  the  twilight  hastens  on,  a  spiritual  calm 
Seems  resting   on    the  quiet  leaves    which  evening   dews    em 
balm. 

'T  is  moonlight  in  my  garden ;  like  some  fair  babe  at  rest, 
The  day-flower  folds  its  silky  wing  upon  its  pulseless  breast ; 
Nor  is  it  vain  philosophy  to  think  that  plants  may  keep 
A  holiday  of  airy  dreams  beneath  their  graceful  sleep. 
11 


120  CAROLINE     OILMAN. 

'T  is  morning  in  my  garden ;    each  leaf  of  crisped  green 
Hangs  tremulous  in  diamond  gems  with  emerald  rays  between. 
It  is  the  birth  of  nature ;    baptized  in  early  dew, 
The  plants   look   meekly  up  and  smile   as  if  their  God    they 
knew. 

My  garden  —  fair  and  brilliant !  —  the  butterfly  outspread 
Alights  with  gentle  fluttering  on  the  wall-flower's  golden  head. 
Then  darting  to  the  lily-bed  floats  o'er  its  sheeted  white, 
And  settles  on  the  violet's  cup  with  fanciful  delight. 

My  quiet  little  garden!  —  I  hear  the  rolling  wheel 
Of  the  city's  busy  multitude  along  the  highway  peal, 
I  tread  thy  paths  more  fondly,  and  inhale  the  circling  air 
That  glads  and  cools  me  on  its  way  from  that  wide  mart  of 
care. 

My  friendly  little  garden!   few  worldly  goods  have  I 

To  tender  with  o'erflowing  heart  in  blessed  charity, 

But,  like  the  cup  of  water  by  a  pure  disciple  given, 

An  herb  or  flower  may  tell  its  tale  of  kindliness  in  heaven. 

*  *  *  #  * 

My  faith-inspiring  garden!    thy  seeds  so  dark  and  cold 
Late  slept  in  utter  loneliness  amid  earth's  senseless  mould; 
No  sunbeams  fell  upon  them,  nor  west-wind's  gentle  breath, 
But  there  they  lay  in  nothingness,  an  image  meet  of  death. 

Now,  lo !  they  rise  in  gorgeous  ranks,  and  glad  the  eager  eye, 
And  on  the  wooing  summer-breeze  their  odour  passes  by ; 
The  flower-grave    cannot  chain  them;    the  spirit-life  upsprings 
And  scatters  beauty  in  its  path  from  thousand  unseen  wings. 

My  garden !  may  the  morning  dew  rest  lightly  on  thy  bowers, 
And  summer  clouds  distil  around  their  most  refreshing  showers, 
And  when  the  daily  sun  withdraws  his  golden  tent  above, 
May  moon  and  stars  look  watchful  down  and  bless  thee  with 
their  love. 


CAROLINE     OILMAN.  121 


OLD     AGE. 

WHY  should  old  age  escape  unnoticed  here, 

That  sacred  era  to  reflection  dear? 

That  peaceful  shore  where  passion  dies  away, 

Like  the  last  wave  that  ripples  o'er  the  bay  ? 

Oh,  if  old  age  were  cancell'd  from  our  lot, 

Full  soon  would  man  deplore  the  unhallow'd  blot! 

Life's  busy  day  would  want  its  tranquil  even, 

And  earth  would  lose  her  stepping-stone  to  heaven. 


THE    CHILD'S    WISH    IN   JUNE. 

MOTHER,  mother,  the  winds  are  at  play, 
Prithee,  let  me  be  idle  to-day. 
Look,  dear  mother,  the  flowers  all  lie 
Languidly  under  the  bright  blue  sky. 
See,  how  slowly  the  streamlet  glides ; 
Look,  how  the  violet  roguishly  hides ; 
Even  the  butterfly  rests  on  the  rose, 
And  scarcely  sips  the  sweets  as  he  goes. 
Poor  Tray  is  asleep  in  the  noon-day  sun, 
And  the  Hies  go  about  him  one  by  one; 
And  pussy  sits  near  with  a  sleepy  grace, 
Without  ever  thinking  of  washing  her  face. 
There  flies  a  bird  to  a  neighbouring  tree, 
But  very  lazily  flieth  he, 
And  he  sits  and  twitters  a  gentle  note, 
That  scarcely  ruffles  his  little  throat. 

You  bid  me  be  busy;    but,  mother,  hear 
How  the  hum-drum  grasshopper  soundeth  near, 
And  the  soft  west  wind  is  so  light  in  its  play, 
It  scarcely  moves  a  leaf  on  the  spray. 


CAROLINE     GILMAN. 


I  wish,  oh,  I  wish    I  was  yonder  cloud. 
That  sails  about  with  its  misty  shroud; 
Books  and  work   I  no  more  should  see, 
And  I'd  come  and  float,  dear  mother,  o'er  thee. 


THE     MOCKING-BIRD     IN     THE     CITY 

BIRD  of  the  south  !   is  this  a  scene  to  waken 
Thy  native  notes  in  thrilling,  gushing  tone  ? 

Thy  woodland  nest  of  love  is  all  forsaken 

Thy  mate  alone! 


While  stranger-throngs  roll  by,  thy  song  is  lending 

Joy  to  the  happy,  soothings  to  the  sad; 
O'er  my  full  heart  it  flows  with  gentle  blending, 
And  I  am  glad. 

And  I  will  sing,  though  dear  ones,  loved  and  loving, 

Are  left  afar  in  my  sweet  nest  of  home; 
Though  from  that  nest,  with  backward  yearnings  moving, 
Onward  I  roam! 

And  with  heart-music  shall  my  feeble  aiding 

Still  swell  the  note  of  human  joy  aloud ; 
Nor,  with  untrusting  soul,  kind  Heaven  upbraiding, 
Sigh  'mid  the  crowd. 


•    SARAH  JOSEPHA  HALE. 

THIS  excellent  lady,  whose  maiden  name  was  Buell,  was  born  at  New 
port,  New  Hampshire.  Her  mother  was  a  woman  of  remarkably  clear 
and  cultivated  mind,  and  to  her  intelligent  conversation,  and  happy 
talent  of  communicating  knowledge,  Mrs.  Hale  traces  her  own  delight 
in  learning,  and  desire  for  intellectual  advancement.  She  was  married 
when  very  young  to  David  Hale,  Esq.,  who  was  a  lawyer  by  profession, 
and  a  man  whose  tastes  and  feelings  were  in  every  way  congenial  with 
her  own.  It  was  not  until  his  death,  in  1822,  that  she  first  seriously 
thought  of  becoming  an  authoress ;  then,  her  straitened  circumstances, 
and  her  affectionate  anxiety  to  procure  for  her  children  the  advantages 
of  a  good  education,  determined  her  to  put  her  talents  out  at  interest, 
and  seek  in  literature  the  means  of  gratifying  her  warm  maternal 
desires.  Her  first  published  work  was  a  small  volume  of  Poems ;  select 
ed  from  articles  written  when  a  girl  for  her  own  amusement.  The 
next,  Northwood,  a  novel  in  two  volumes,  (chiefly  descriptive  of  New 
England  life,)  which  was  favourably  received,  and  at  that  time  much 
admired.  In  1828,  she  undertook  the  editorship  of  The  American 
Ladies'  Magazine,  established  in  Boston.  During  her  residence  in  that 
city,  she  published  Sketches  of  American  Character,  Flora's  Interpre 
ter,  Traits  of  American  Life,  The  Ladies'  Wreath,  and  several  books 
for  children. 

Mrs.  Hale  has  lived  in  Philadelphia  a  number  of  years  past,  and  is 
respected  there  no  less  for  her  many  virtues  and  social  excellencies, 
than  for  her  taste  and  skill  as  an  author  and  an  editor.  The  numerous 
readers  of  that  popular  magazine,  The  Lady's  Book,  are  indebted  to  her 
for  the  discriminating  judgment  with  which  she  gathers,  and  arranges 
for  their  mental  refreshment,  the  fruits  and  flowers  of  genius.  She  also 
edits  The  Opal,  a  religious  annual  of  much  attraction.  Three  Hours,  or 
the  Vigil  of  Love;  and  other  Poems,  published  in  January,  1848,  is  the 
largest  and  latest  collection  of  her  poetry.  Many  of  these  poems,  besides 
the  first,  are  entirely  new,  though  some  we  recognize  as  old  friends; 
Alice  Ray,  for  instance,  a  simple  story  of  every-day  life,  clad  in  grace 
ful  rhymes;  which  contains  several  exquisite  touches  of  nature,  and 
has  been  a  universal  favourite  since  its  first  appearance,  in  1845. 
The  smaller  poems  in  this  volume  are  marked  by  that  chasteness  and 

( 123 ) 


124  SARAH     JOSEPH  A     HALE. 

simplicity  which  invariably  characterize  Mrs.  Kale's  writings;  while 
Iron,  and  a  few  others,  display  much  strength  of  expression,  and 
originality  Of  thought.  In  all,  there  is  some  good  lesson  incul 
cated ;  showing  a  healthiness  of  sentiment,  and  a  soundness  of 
heart,  more  valuable  than  the  most  brilliant  imagination.  Harry 
Guy,  a  Story  of  the  Sea,  has  recently  appeared  from  her  pen. 
It  is  a  poem  printed  in  pamphlet  form,  and  was  written  with  the  kind 
intention  (which  we  trust  will  be  fully  realized)  of  doing  something  in 
the  cause  of  the  much-neglected  sailor,  "making  his  condition  better 
understood,  his  character  more  highly  appreciated."  This  is  another 
proof  that  in  all  the  efforts  of  her  industrious  mind,  the  chief  object  in 
view  is  usefulness,  the  main-spring,  benevolence. 

IRON. 

"Truth  shall  spring  out  of  the  earth."— PSALMS,  Ixxxv.  11. 

As,  in  lonely  thought,  I  ponder'd 

On  the  marv'lous  things  of  earth, 
And,  in  fancy's  dreaming,  wonder'd 

At  their  beauty,  power,  and  worth, 
Came,  like  words  of  prayer,  the  feeling 

Oh !    that  God   would  make  me  know, 
Through  the  spirit's  clear  revealing  — 

What,  of  all  his  works  below 
Is  to  man  a  boon  the  greatest, 

Brightening  on  from  age  to  age, 
Serving  truest,  earliest,  latest, 

Through  the  world's  long  pilgrimage. 

Soon  vast  mountains  rose  before  me, 

Shaggy,  desolate  and  lone, 
Their  scarr'd  heads  were  threat'ning  o'er  me, 

Their  dark  shadows  round  me  thrown ; 
Then  a  voice,  from  out  the  mountains, 

As  an  earthquake  shook  the  ground, 
And  like  frighten'd  fawns  the  fountains, 

Leaping,  fled  before  the  sound; 


SARAH     JOSEPHA     HALE.  1 25 

And  the  Anak  oaks  bow'd  lowly, 

Quivering,  aspen-like,  with  fear — • 
While  the  deep  response  came  slowly, 

Or  it  must  have  crush'd  mine  ear ! 

«  Iron  !    Iron  !    Iron  !" —  crashing, 

Like  the  battle-axe  and  shield; 
Or  the  sword  on  helmet  clashing, 

Through  a  bloody  battle-field: 
«  Iron  !    Iron  !    Iron  !" —  rolling, 

Like  the  far-off  cannon's  boom ; 
Or  the  death-knell,  slowly  tolling. 

Through  a  dungeon's  charnel  gloom 
"Iron!    Iron!    Iron  !"—  swinging, 

Like  the  summer  winds  at  play  ; 
Or  as  bells  of  Time  were  ringing 

In  the  blest  Millennial  Day ! 

Then  the  clouds  of  ancient  fable 

Clear'd  away  before  mine  eyes; 
Truth  could  tread  a  footing  stable, 

O'er  the  gulf  of  mysteries  ! 
Words,  the  prophet  bards  had  utter'd, 

Signs,  the  oracle  foretold, 
Spells,  the  weird-like  Sibyl  mutter'd, 

Through  the  twilight  days  of  old, 
Rightly  read,  beneath  the  splendour, 

Shining  now  on  history's  page, 
All  their  faithful  witness  render  — 

All  portend  a  better  age. 

Sisyphus,  for  ever  toiling, 

Was  the  type  of  toiling  men, 
While  the  stone  of  power,  recoiling, 

Crush'd  them  back  to  earth  again! 
11* 


126  SARAH     JOSEPHA     HALE. 

Stern  Prometheus,  bound  and  bleeding, 

Imaged  man  in  mental  chain, 
While  the  vultures,  on  him  feeding, 

Were  the  passions1  vengeful  reign; 
Still  a  ray  of  mercy  tarried 

On  the  cloud,  a  white-winged  dove, 
For  this  mystic  faith  had  married 

Vulcan  to  the  Queen  of  love ! 

Rugged  strength  and  radiant  beauty  — 

These  were  one  in  nature's  plan ; 
Humble  toil  and  heavenward  duty  — 

These  will  form  the  perfect  man! 
Darkly  was  this  doctrine  taught  us 

By  the  gods  of  heathendom ; 
But  the  living  light  was  brought  us, 

When  the  gospel  morn  had  come! 
How  the  glorious  change,  expected. 

Could  be  wrought,  was  then  made  free; 
Of  the  earthly,  when  perfected, 

Rugged  Iron  forms  the  key! 

"Truth  from  out  the  earth  shall  flourish," 

This  the  word  of  God  makes  known, — 
Thence  are  harvests  men  to  nourish 

There  let  Iron's  power  be  shown. 
Of  the  swords,  from   slaughter  gory, 

Ploughshares  forge  to  break  the  soil ;  — 
Then  will  Mind  attain  its  glory, 

Then  will  Labour  reap  the  spoil, — 
Error  cease  the  soul  to  wilder, 

Crime  be  check'd  by  simple  good, 
As  the  little  coral  builder 

Forces  back  the  furious  flood. 

While  our  faith  in  good  grows  stronger, 
Means  of  greater  good  increase ; 


SARAH    JOSEPH  A     HALE.  127 

Iron,  slave  of  war  no  longer, 

Leads  the  onward  march  of  peace ; 
Still  new  modes  of  service  finding, 

Ocean,  earth,  and  air  it  moves, 
And  the  distant  nations  binding, 

Like  the  kindred  tie  it  proves; 
With  its  Atlas-shoulder  sharing 

Loads  of  human  toil  and  care; 
On  its  wing  of  lightning  bearing 

Thought's  swift  mission  through  the  air! 

As  the  rivers,  farthest  flowing, 

In  the  highest  hills  have  birth; 
As  the  banyan,  broadest  growing, 

Oftenest  bows  its  head  to  earth, — 
So  the  noblest  minds  press  onward, 

Channels  far  of  good  to  trace ; 
So  the  largest  hearts  bend  downward, 

Circling  all  the  human  race ; 
Thus,  by  Iron's  aid,  pursuing 

Through  the  earth  their  plans  of  love, 
Men  our  Father's  will  are  doing, 

Here,  as  angels  do  above. 

THE     CHASE     OF     PLEASURE. 

WE  all  are  children  in  our  strife  to  seize 
Each  petty  pleasure,  as  it  lures  the  sight : 

And  like  the  tall  tree,  swaying  in  the  breeze, 
Our  lofty  wishes  stoop  their  towering  flight, 

Till,  when  the  aim  is  won,  it  seems  no  more 

Than  gatherM  shell  from  ocean's  countless  store. 

Or,  like  the  boy,  whose  eager  hand  is  raised 
To  seize  the  shining  fly  that  folds  its  wings, 

We  grasp  the  pleasure,  and  then  stand  amazed 
To  find  how  small  the  real  good  it  brings! 


128  SARAH     JOSEPH  A     HALE. 

The  joy  is  in  the  chase  —  so  finds  the  boy  — 
When  seized,  then  he  must  lose  it,  or  destroy. 

And  yet  the  child  will  have  enjoyment  true, 
The  sweet  and  simple  pleasure  of  success ; 

He  reasons  not,  as  older  minds  would  do, 
How  he  shall  show  the  world  his  happiness: 

And,  wiser  than  the  crowds  who  seek  display, 

His  own  glad  earnest  purpose  makes  him  gay. 

And  ever  those  who  would  enjoyment  gain, 
Must  find  it  in  the  purpose  they  pursue; 

The  sting  of  falsehood  loses  half  its  pain 

If  our  own  soul  bear  witness  —  we  are  true  f 

What  matter  though  the  scorn  of  fools  be  given, 

If  the  path  followed  lead  us  on  to  heaven! 


THE     FOUR-LEAVED     CLOVER. 

"There's  wisdom  in  the  grass,  its  teachings  would   we  heed.' 

THERE  knelt  beneath  the  tulip  tree 

A  maiden  fair  and  young; 
The  flowers  o'erhead  bloom'd  gorgeously, 

As  though  by  rainbows  flung, 
And  all  around  were  daisies  bright, 
And  pansies  with  their  eyes  of  light, 
Like  gold  the  sun-kiss'd  crocus  shone, 
With  beauty's  smiles  the  earth  seem'd  strown, 
And  Love's  warm  incense  fill'd  the  air, 
While  the  fair  girl  was  kneeling  there. 

In  vain  the  flowers  may  woo  around, — 

Their  charms  she  does  not  see, 
For  she  a  dearer  prize  has  found 

Beneath  the  tulip  tree;  — 


SARAH     JOSEPH  A     HALE.  129 

A  little  four-leaved  clover,  green 
As  robes  that  grace  the  fairy  queen, 
And  fresh  as  hopes  of  early  youth, 
When  life  is  love,  and  love  is  truth; 
—  A  talisman  of  constant  love, 
This  humble  clover  sure  will  prove ! 

And  on  her  heart,  that  gentle  maid 

The  sever'd  leaves  has  press'd, 
Which  through  the  coming  night's  dark  shade 

Beneath  her  cheek  will  rest ; 
Then  precious  dreams  of  one  will  rise, 
Like  Love's  own  star  in  morning  skies, 
So  sweetly  bright,   we  would  the  day 
His  glowing  chariot  might  delay ;  — 
What  tomes  of  pure  and  tender  thought 
Those  simple  leaves  to  her  have  taught ! 

Of  old    the  sacred  mistletoe 

The  Druid's  altar  bound ; 
The  Roman  hero's  haughty  brow 

The  fadeless  laurel  crown'd. 
Dark  superstition's  sway  is  past, 
And  war's  red  star  is  waning  fast, 
Nor  mistletoe,  nor  laurel  hold 
The  mystic  language  breathed  of  old ; 
For  nature's  life  no  power  can  give, 
To  bid  the  false  and  selfish  live. 

But  still  the  olive-leaf  imparts, 

As  when,  dove-borne,  at  first, 
Jt  taught  heaven's  lore  to  human  hearts, 

Its  hope,  and  joy,  and  trust ; 
Nor  deem  the  faith  from  folly  springs,, 
Which  innocent  enjoyment  brings; 
Better  from  earth  root  every  flower, 
Than  crush  imagination's  power. 


130  SARAH     JOSEPHA     HALE 

In  true  and  loving  minds,  to  raise 
An  Eden  for  their  coming  days. 

As  on  each  rock,  where  plants  can  cling, 

The  sunshine  will  be  shed; 
As  from  the  tiniest  star-lit  spring, 

The  ocean's  depths  are  fed; 
Thus  hopes  will  rise,  if  love's  clear  ray 
Keep  warm  and  bright  life's  rock-strewn  way; 
And  from  small,  daily  joys,  distill'd, 
The  heart's  deep  fount  of  peace  is  fill'd ;  — 
Oh !    blest  when  Fancy's  ray  is  given, 
Like  the  ethereal  spark,  from  heaven  ! 


THE     WATCHER. 

THE  night  was  dark  and  fearful, 

The  blast  swept  wailing  by; 
A  Watcher,  pale  and  tearful, 

Look'd  forth  with  anxious  eye; 
How  wistfully  she  gazes  — 

No  gleam  of  morn  is  there ! 
And  then  her  heart  upraises 

Its  agony  of  prayer! 

Within  that  dwelling  lonely, 

Where  want  and  darkness  reign, 
Her  precious  child,  her  only, 

Lay  moaning  in  his  pain; 
And  death  alone  can  free  him  — 

She  feels  that  this  must  be : 
"  But  oh !   for  morn  to  see  him 

Smile  once  again  on  me!" 

A  hundred  lights  are  glancing 
In  yonder  mansion  fair, 


SARAH    JOSEPHA     HALE.  131 

And  merry  feet  are  dancing  — 

They  heed  not  morning  there: 
Oh!   young  and  lovely  creatures, 

One  lamp,  from  out  your  store, 
Would  give  that  poor  boy's  features 

To  her  fond  gaze  once  more. 

The  morning  sun  is  shining  — 

She  heedeth  not  its  ray; 
Beside  her  dead,  reclining, 

That  pale,  dead  mother  Jay ! 
A  smile  her  lip  was  wreathing, 

A  smile  of  hope  and  iove, 
As  though  she  still  were  breathing  — 

"  There  's  light  for  us  above  !" 


I     SING     TO     HIM. 

I  SING  to  him !     I  dream  he  hears 

The  song  he  used  to  love, 
And  oft  that  blessed  fancy  cheers 

And  bears  my  thoughts  above. 
Ye  say,  'tis  idle  thus  to  dream  — 

But  why  believe  it  so  ? 
It  is  the  spirit's  meteor  gleam, 

To  soothe  the  pang  of  woe. 

Love  gives  to  nature's  voice  a  tone 

That  true  hearts  understand, — 
The  sky,  the  earth,  the  forest  lone 

Are  peopled  by  his  wand ; 
Sweet  fancies  all  our  pulses  thrill 

While  gazing  on  a  flower, 
And  from  the  gently  whisp'ring  rill 

Are  heard  the  words  of  power. 


132  SARAH    JOSEPHA     HALE. 

I  breathe  the  dear  and  cherish'd  name, 

And  long-lost  scenes  arise ; 
Life's  glowing  landscape  spreads  the  same ; 

The  same  Hope's  kindling  skies ;  — 
The  violet  bank,  the  moss-fringed  seat 

Beneath  the  drooping  tree, 
The  clock  that  chimed  the  hour  to  meet, 

My  buried  love,  with  thee; — 

O,  these  are  all  before  me,  when 

In  fancy's  realms  I  rove; 
Why  urge  me  to  the  world  again  ? 

Why  say  the  ties  of  love, 
That  death's  cold,  cruel  grasp  has  riven. 

Unite  no  more  below  ? 
I'll  sing  to  him,  —  for  though  in  heaven, 

He  surely  heeds  my  wo! 


DESCRIPTION     OF     ALICE    RAY. 
(FROM    ALICE    RAT.) 

THE  birds  their  love-notes  warble 

Among  the  blossom'd  trees; 
The  flowers  are  sighing  forth  their  sweets 

To  wooing  honey-bees; 
The  glad  brook  o'er  a  pebbly  floor 

Goes  dancing  on  its  way;  — 
But  not  a  thing  is  so  like  spring 

As  happy  Alice  Ray. 

An  only  child  was  Alice, 

And,  like  the  blest  above, 
The  gentle  maid  had  ever  breathed 

An  atmosphere  of  love  ; 


SARAH    JOSEPHA     HALE.  133 

Her  father's  smile  like  sunshine  came, 

Like  dew  her  mother's  kiss, 
Their  love  and  goodness  made  her  home, 

Like  heaven,  the  place  of  bliss. 

Beneath  such  tender  training, 

The  joyous  child  had  sprung, 
Like  one  bright  flower,  in  wild-wood  bower, 

And  gladness  round  her  flung; 
And  all  who  met  her  bless'd  her, 

And  turned  again  to  pray, 
That  grief  and  care  might  ever  spare 

The  happy  Alice  Ray. 

The  gift  that  made  her  charming 

Was  not  from  Venus  caught; 
Nor  was  it.  Pallas-like,  derived 

From  majesty  of  thought;  — 
Her  healthful  cheek  was  tinged  with  brown, 

Her  hair  without  a  curl ; 
But  then  her  eyes  were  love-lit  stars, 

Her  teeth  as  pure  as  pearl. 

And  when  in  merry  laughter 

Her  sweet,  clear  voice  was  heard, 
It  well'd  from  out  her  happy  heart 

Like  carol  of  a  bird ; 
And  all  who  heard  were  moved  to  smiles, 

As  at  some  mirthful  lay, 
And,  to  the  stranger's  look,  replied  — 

"  'T  is  that  dear  Alice  Ray." 

And  so  she  came,  like  sunbeams 

That  bring  the  April  green; 
As  type  of  nature's  royalty, 

They  call'd  her  «  Woodburn's  Queen !" 
12 


134  SARAH     JOSEPHA     HALE. 


A  sweet,  heart-lifting  cheerfulness, 
Like  spring-time  of  the  year, 

Seem'd  ever  on  her  steps  to  wait, — 
No  wonder  she  was  dear. 


THE     MISSISSIPPI. 

MONARCH  of  Rivers  in  the  wide  domain 

Where  Freedom  writes  her  signature  in  stars, 

And  bids  her  Eagle  bear  the  blazing  scroll 

To  usher  in  the  reign  of  peace  and  love, 

Thou  mighty  Mississippi!  —  may  my  song 

Swell  with  thy  power,  and  though  an  humble  rill, 

Eoll,  like  thy  current,  through  the  sea  of  Time, 

Bearing  thy  name,  as  tribute  from  my  soul 

Of  fervent  gratitude  and  holy  praise, 

To  Him  who  pour'd  thy  multitude  of  waves. 

Shadow'd  beneath  those  awful  piles  of  stone> 
Where  Liberty  has  found  a  Pisgah  height, 
Overlooking  all  the  land  she  loves  to  bless. 
The  jagged  rocks  and  icy  towers  her  guard, 
Whose  splinter'd  summits  seize  the  warring  clouds, 
And  roll  them,  broken,  like  a  host  o'erthrown, 
Adown  the  Mountain's  side,  scattering  their  wealth 
Of  powder'd  pearl  and  liquid  diamond  drops, — 
THERE  is  thy  Source,  —  great  River  of  the  West! 

Slowly,  like  youthful  Titan  gathering  strength 

To  war  with  heaven  and  win  himself  a  name, 

The  stream  moves  onward  through  the  dark  ravines, 

Rending  the  roots  of  over-arching  trees, 

To  form  its  narrow  channel,  where  the  star, 

That  fain  would  bathe  its  beauty  in  the  wave, 

Like  lover's  glance  steals,  trembling,  through  the  leaves 


SARAH    JOSEPHA     HALE.  135 

That  veil  the  waters  with  a  vestal's  care;  — 
And  few  of  human  form  have  ventured  there, 
Save  the  swart  savage  in  his  bark  canoe. 

But  now  it  deepens,  struggles,  rushes  on; 
Like  goaded  war-horse,  bounding  o'er  the  foe, 
It  clears  the  rocks  it  may  not  spurn  aside, 
Leaping,  as  Curtius  leap'd  ad  own  the  gulf, 
And  rising,  like  Antaeus  from  the  fall, 
Its  course  majestic  through  the  Land  pursues, 
And  the  broad  River  o'er  the  Valley  reigns! 

It  reigns  alone.     The  tributary  streams 
Are  humble  vassals,  yielding  to  its  sway. 
And  when  the  wild  Missouri  fain  would  join 
A  rival  in  the  race  —  as  Jacob  seized 
On  his  red  brother's  birth-right,  even  so 
The  swelling  Mississippi  grasps  that  wave, 
And,  rebaptizing,  makes  the  waters  one. 

It  reigns  alone  —  and  Earth  the  sceptre  feels:  — 
Her  ancient  trees  are  bow'd  beneath  the  wave, 
Or,  rent  like  reeds  before  the  whirlwind's  swoop, 
Toss  on  the  bosom  of  the  madden'd  flood, 
A  floating  forest,  till  the  waters,  calm'd, 
Like  slumbering  anaconda  gorged  with  prey, 
Open  a  haven  to  the  moving  mass, 
Or  form  an  island  in  the  dark  abyss. 

It  reigns  alone.     Old  Nile  would  ne'er  bedew 
The  Lands  it  blesses  with  its  fertile  tide. 
Even  sacred  Ganges,  joined  with  Egypt's  flood, 
Would  shrink  beside  this  wonder  of  the  West! 
Ay,  gather  Europe's  royal  Rivers  all  — 
The  snow-swell'd  Neva,  with  an  Empire's  weight 
On  her  broad  breast,  she  yet  may  overwhelm; 
Dark  Danube,  hurrying,  as  by  foe  pursued, 


136  SARAH     JOSEPH  A     HALE. 

Through  shaggy  forests  and  from  palace  walls, 

To  hide  its  terrors  in  a  sea  of  gloom ; 

The  castled  Rhine,  whose  vine-crown'd  waters  flow, 

The  fount  of  fable  and  the  source  of  song; 

The  rushing  Rhone,  in  whose  cerulean  depths 

The  loving  sky  seems  wedded  with  the  wave ; 

The  yellow  Tiber,  choked  with  Roman  spoils, 

A  dying  miser  shrinking  'neath  his  gold  ; 

And  Seine,  where  Fashion  glasses  fairest  forms; 

And  Thames,  that  bears  the  riches  of  the  world; 

Gather  their  waters  in  one  ocean  mass, 

—  Our  Mississippi,  rolling  proudly  on, 

Would  sweep  them  from  its  path,  or  swallow  up, 

Like  Aaron's  rod,  these  streams  of  fame  and  song ! 

And  thus  the  Peoples,  from  the  many  Lands, 
Where  these  old  streams  are  household  memories, 
Mingle  beside  our  River,  and  are  one ; 
And  join  to  swell  the  strength  of  Freedom's  tide, 
That  from  the  fount  of  Truth  is  flowing  on, 
To  sweep  Earth's  thousand  tyrannies  away. 

How  wise  —  how  wonderful  the  works  of  God! 
And,  hallow'd  by  his  goodness,  all  are  good. 
The  creeping  glow-worm  —  the  careering  sun 
Are  kindled  from  the  effluence  of  his  light. 
The  ocean  and   the  acorn-cup  are  fill'd 
By  gushings  from  the  fountain  of  his  love. 
HE  pour'd  the  Mississippi's  torrent  forth, 
And  heaved  its  tide  above  the  trembling  land, — 
Grand  type  how  Freedom  lifts  the  Citizen 
Above  the  subject  masses  of  the  world  — 
And  mark'd  the  limits  it  may  never  pass. 
Trust  in  His  promises,  and  bless  His  power, 
Ye  dwellers  on  its  banks,  and  be  at  peace. 


SARAH     JOSEPHA     HALE.  137 

And  ye,  whose  way  is  on  this  warrior  wave, 
When  the  swoln  waters  heave  with  ocean's  might, 
And  storms  and  darkness  close  the  gate  of  heaven, 
And  the  frail  bark,  fire-driven,  bounds  quivering  on, 
As  though  it  rent  the  iron  shroud  of  night, 
And  struggled  with  the  demons  of  the  flood  — 
Fear  nothing!     He  who  shields  the  folded  flower, 
When  tempests  rage,  is  ever  present  here. 
Lean  on  "  Our  Father's"  breast  in  faith  and  prayer, 
And  Sleep,  —  His  arm  of  love  is  strong  to  save. 

Great  Source  of  Being,  Beauty,  Light  and  Love ! 
Creator !    Lord  !    the  waters  worship  thee ! 
Ere  thy  creative  smile  had  sown  the  flowers ; 
Ere  the  glad  hills  leap'd  upward,  or  the  earth, 
With  swelling  bosom,  waited  for  her  child; 
Before  eternal  Love  had  lit  the  sun, 
Or  Time  had  traced  his  dial-plate  in  stars, 
The  joyful  anthem  of  the  waters  flow'd  ; — • 
And  Chaos  like  a  frighten'd  felon  fled, 
While  on  the  Deep  the  Holy  Spirit  moved. 

And  evermore  the  Deep  has  worshipp'd  God; 
And  Bards  and  Prophets  tune  their  mystic  lyres, 
While  listening  to  the  music  of  the  floods. 
Oh  !    could  I  catch  this  harmony  of  sounds, 
As  borne  on  dewy  wings  they  float  to  heaven, 
And  blend  their  meaning  with  my  closing  strain ! 

Hark  !    as  a  reed-harp  thrill'd  by  whispering  winds, 
Or  Naiad  murmurs  from  a  pearl-lipp'd  shell, 
It  comes — the  melody  of  many  waves! 
And  loud,  with  Freedom's  world-awaking  note, 
The  deep-toned  Mississippi  leads  the  choir. 
—  The  pure  sweet  Fountains  chant  of  heavenly  hope, 
The  chorus  of  the  Rills  is  household  love  ; 
12* 


138  SARAH     JOSEPHA     HALE. 

The  Rivers  roll  their  song  of  social  joy; 
And  Ocean's  organ  voice  is  sounding  forth 
The  Hymn  of  Universal  Brotherhood! 


THE     FIRST     SWALLOW. 
"One  swallow  does  not  make  a  summer."  —  OLD  PROVERB. 

OUT  on  the  wisdom  frozen 

By  ice-cold  doubts  and  fears! 
Why  should  life's  path  be  chosen 

Through  sorrow's  vale  of  tears  ? 
A  child,  how  I  detested 

The  "  ifs"  and  «  buts"  to  hear, 
When,  with  Hope's  charm  invested, 

Some  promised  joy  was  near: 
Still  in  my  heart  is  shining 

The  light  divine,  which  lends 
Each  cloud  a  silver  lining, 

O'er  storms  a  rainbow  bends. 

Then  welcome  little  swallow, 

Thou 'It  bring  the  summer  fair  — 
With  pleasant  thoughts  I  follow 

Thy  waltzing  through  the  air; 
What  though  bright  flowers  have  faded, 

That  once  my  pathway  bless'd, 
What  though  green  bovvers  are  shaded, 

Where  sunshine  used  to  rest : 
Yet  still  my  soul  rejoices. 

And  every  shadow  flies, 
When  nature's  thousand  voices, 

In  summer  gladness  rise. 

There's  not  a  plant  that  springeth, 
But  bears  some  good  to  earth  — 


SARAH    JOSEPHA     HALE.  139 

There's  not  a  life  but  bringeth 

Its  store  of  harmless  mirth  — 
The  dusty  way-side  clover 

Has  honey  in  its  cells, 
The  wild  bee,  humming  over, 

Her  tale  of  pleasure  tells ; 
The  osiers,  o'er  the  fountain, 

Keep  cool  the  water's  breast, 
And  on  the  roughest  mountain 

The  softest  moss  is  press'd. 

Thus  holy  Wisdom  teaches 

The  worth  of  blessings  small, 
That  Love  pervades,  and  reaches, 

And  forms  the  bliss  of  all; 
The  trusting  eye,  joy-seeking, 

Some  Eden  finds  or  makes, 
The  glad  voice,  kindly  speaking, 

Some  kindred  tone  awakes  : 
Nor  need  we  power  or  splendour, 

Wide  hall  or  lordly  dome; 
The  good,  the  true,  the  tender, 

These  form  the  wealth  of  home. 

The  pilgrim  swallow  cometh 

To  her  forsaken  nest  — 
So  must  the  heart  that  roameth 

Return,  to  find  its  rest, 
Where  Love  sheds  summer's  lustre, — • 

And  wheresoe'er  'tis  found, 
There  sweetest  flowers  will  cluster, 

And  dearest  joys  abound ; 
Thus  Heaven  to  all  doth  render 

The  prize  of  happiness ; 
The  good,  the  true,  the  tender, 

Earth's  lowliest  lot  may  bless. 


140  SARAH     JOSEPHA     HALE. 


BONDS. 


He  is  a  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free, 
And  all  are  slaves  beside." 

COWPEII. 

YE  may  place  the  trusty  guard, 
Bolt  the  dark  and  narrow  room, 
Bind  the  heavy  fetter  hard, 
Till  the  links  the  flesh  consume; 
Never,  never,  thus  confined, 
Will  enslaved  the  prisoner  be  — 
There  's  no  fetter  on  his  mind ; 
And  the  spirit  will  be  free, — 
If  stern  memory's  thrilling  tone 
Wake  no  terrors  in  his  heart ; 
In  the  vision'd  future,  shown, 
If  he  act  the  lofty  part. 

Ye  may  bar  him  from  the  air, 
And  the  light  of  heaven  forbid, — 
There  's  a  region  fresh  and  fair, 
And  its  smile  can  ne'er  be  hid 
From  the  meek  and  trusting  eyes, 
Looking  upward  steadily ; 
And  his  thoughts  will  thus  arise, 
Till  he  triumphs  with  the  free, — 
If  his  soul  have  never  bow'd 
When  a  golden  Image  shone  — 
If  among  the  servile  crowd, 
He  would  follow  Truth  alone; 

Ye  may  deck  the  lofty  hall 
With  the  wealth  of  earth  and  sea, 
And,  in  splendour  over  all 
Wave  the  banners  of  the  free  — 


SARAH     JOSEPHA     HALE.  141 

Ye  may  crown  the  conqueror  there, 
With  the  laurels  of  the  brave; 
'Mid  the  honours  ye  prepare, 
He  shall  feel  himself  a  slave, — 
If  ambition  rule  his  thought, 
And  the  highest  place  he  ask, 
All  the  labours  he  has  wrought 
Are  but  scourges  to  his  task. 

Ye  may  twine  the  living  flowers 

Where  the  living  fountains  glide, 

And  beneath  the  rosy  bowers 

Let  the  selfish  man  abide, 

And  the  birds  upon  the  wing, 

And  the  barks  upon  the  wave, 

Shall  no  sense  of  freedom  bring; 

All  is  slavery  to  the  slave ! 

Mammon's  close-link'd  bonds  have  bound  him, 

Self-imposed,  and  seldom  burst; 

Though  heaven's  waters  gush  around  him, 

He  would  pine  with  earth's  poor  thirst. 

THE     TWO     MAIDENS. 

ONE  came  with  light  and  laughing  air, 

And  cheek  like  opening  blossom, 
Bright  gems  were  twined  amid  her  hair, 

And  glitter'd  on  her  bosom, 
And  pearls  and  costly  diamonds  deck 
Her  round  white  arms  and  lovely  neck. 

Like  summer's  sky,  with  stars  bedight, 

The  jewell'd  robe  around  her, 
And  dazzling  as  the  noon-tide  light 

The  radiant  zone  that  bound  her, — 
And  pride  and  joy  were  in  her  eye, 
And  mortals  bow'd  as  she  pass'd  by. 


142  SARAH    JOSEPHA     HALE. 

Another  came  —  o'er  her  sweet  face 
A  pensive  shade  was  stealing; 

Yet  there  no  grief  of  earth  we  trace, 
But  heaven-hallo w'd  feeling, 

Which  mourns  the  heart  should  ever  stray 

From  the  pure  fount  of  Truth  away. 

Around  her  brow,  as  snow-drop  fair, 

The  glossy  tresses  cluster, 
Nor  pearl,  nor  ornament  was  there, 

Save  the  meek  spirit's  lustre;  — 
And  faith  and  hope  beam'd  in  her  eye, 
And  angels  bo  w'd  as  she  pass'd  by. 


IS      CHINA     OUR     NEIGHBOUR? 

And  Jesus  said,  Which  was  neighbour  unto  him  that  fell  among  the 
thieves?  —  And  he  said,  He  that  showed  mercy  on  him.  Then  said 
Jesus  unto  him,  Go  and  do  thou  likewise. — St.  Luke. 

CAN  China  be  our  neighbour, 

And  yet  receive  no  care  ? 
Shall  Christians  cease  their  labour, 

And  leave  her  to  despair? 
Her  children,  sunk  in  sorrow, 

Are  sick  with  many  ills, 
To-day  is  sad  —  to-morrow 

A  deeper  shadow  fills. 

And  bow'd  in  tribulation, 

No  light  athwart  the  gloom, 
That  old  and  haughty  nation 

Seems  hastening  to  her  doom; 
The  cup  of  woe  is  tasted, — 

And  must  she,  'neath  war's  frown, 
Like  Babylon  be  wasted  ? 

Like  Egypt  trodden  down  ? 


SARAH     JOSEPHA     HALE.  143 

Oh !  when  those  nations  perish'd, 

No  Saviour's  name  was  known, 
No  brother's  love  was  cherish'd — 

No  Christian  kindness  shown; 
Now,  where's  the  heart  so  frozen 

But  feels  the  Gospel  ray? 
And  we,  as  Freedom's  chosen, 

Should  lead  in  Mercy's  way. 

As  gentle  dews,  distilling, 

Cause  wither'd  plants  to  live, 
So  Love,  her  work  fulfilling, 

Her  alms  and  prayers  must  give ; 
Till  China's  millions,  breaking 

From  sin's  dark  bonds,  arise, 
Like  death  to  life  awaking, 

When  Christ  descends  the  skies ! 

As  early  flowers,  upspringing, 

Proclaim  the  opening  year, 
So  love  and  hope  are  bringing 

The  day  of  promise  near ;  — 
Each  tear  by  pity  given, 

Each  mite  in  faith  bestow'd, 
Makes  earth  more  like  to  heaven, 

Where  all  is  done  for  God. 


THE      POWER     OF      MUSIC. 

WHEN  Orpheus  struck  his  burning  lyre, 

Mute  Nature  caught  creative  fire, 

Rough  stones  obey'd  the  swelling  sound, 

In  mystic  measure  moved  around, 

Till,  polish'd  by  the  harmony, 

The  finish'd  structure,  grand  and  free, 

Rose  like  the  star  that  heralds  day, 

To  show  Man's  Mind  its  work  and  way ! 


144  SARAH     JOSEPHA     HALE. 

The  sword  may  sever  slavery's  chain, 
The  strong  arm  crush  the  tyrant's  reign, 
As  lightning  from  the  lurid  sky 
Shatters  and  scathes  the  Temple  high ;  — 
But  'tis  the  sweet-voiced  Spring  that  calls 
The  ivy  o'er  the  broken  walls, 
And  gently  swaying  in  the  blasts, 
The  fragile  plant  the  Pile  outlasts. 

And  thus  the  power  of  Music's  breath 
Re-clothes  the  wastes  of  Time  and  Death. 
The  "blind  old  man"  begins  his  strain, 
And  Greece  is  "living  Greece"  again! 
The  Songs  that  flow'd  on  Zion's  Hill 
Are  chanted  in  God's  Temple  still, 
And  to  the  eye  of  faith  unfold 
The  glories  of  His  House  of  old ! 

Each  Prophet-Bard  of  ancient  days 
Still  breathes  for  us  his  lofty  lays ; 
The  words  that  bear  a  mission  high, 
If  Music-hallow'd,  never  die  ;  — 
And  thus  Religion,  Law  and  Art, 
Sow  their  choice  seeds  in  every  heart; 
From  age  to  age  the  Song  flows  on, 
And  blends  fresh  life  with  glories  gone. 

A  mystery  this — but  who  can  see 
The  soft  south  wind  that  sways  the  tree, 
And  warms  its  vital  flood  to  flow, 
And  wakes  its  folded  buds  to  blow?  — 
Even  thus  the  Power  of  Music,  felt, 
The  soul  is  sway'd,  the  heart  will  melt, 
Till  Love  and  Hope  so  bless  the  Hours, 
Life's  dial-plate  is  mark'd  by  flowers. 


SARAH     JOSEPH  A     HALE.  145 

And  every  Temple  Art  has  rear'd 

Some  truth  has  taught,  some  error  clear'd; 

But  only  Music's  voice  leads  on, 

When  Time  is  o'er  and  Heaven  is  won; 

The  Angel-Art  to  mortals  taught  — 

The  golden  chord  of  human  thought, 

When  pure,  and  tuned  by  Faitli  and  Love, 

Link'd  with  the  golden  harps  above ! 


IT    SNOWS. 

"  IT  snows!"  cries  the  School -boy  —  "hurrah!"  and  his  shout 

Is  ringing  through  parlour  and  hall, 
While  swift,  as  the  wing  of  a  swallow,  he 's  out, 

And  his  playmates  have  answer'd  his  call : 
It  makes  the  heart  leap  but  to  witness  their  joy; 

Proud  wealth  has  no  pleasures,  I  trow, 
Like  the  rapture  that  throbs  in  the  pulse  of  the  boy, 

As  he  gathers  his  treasures  of  snow. 
Then  lay  not  the  trappings  of  gold  on  thine  heirs, 
While  health  and  the  riches  of  Nature  are  theirs. 

"It  snows!"  sighs  the  Imbecile  —  "Ah!"  and  his  breath 

Comes  heavy,  as  clogg'd  with  a  weight ; 
While  from  the  pale  aspect  of  Nature  in  death, 

He  turns  to  the  blaze  of  his  grate ; 
And  nearer,  and  nearer,  his  soft  cushion'd  chair 

Is   wheel'd  toward  the  life-giving  flame  — 
He  dreads  a  chill  puff  of  the  snovv-burden'd  air, 

Lest  it  wither  his  delicate  frame  : 
Oh !  small  is  the  pleasure  existence  can  give, 
When  the  fear  we  shall  die  only  proves  that  we  live ! 

"It  snows!"  cries  the  Traveller  —  "Ho!"  and  the  word 
Has  quicken'd  his  steed's  lagging  pace; 
13  K 


146  SARAH  JOSEPH  A  HALE. 

The  wind  rushes  by,  but  its  howl  is  unheard, 

Unfelt  the  sharp  drift  in  his  face; 
For  bright  through  the  tempest  his  own  home  appeared  — 

Ay,  though  leagues  intervened,  he  can  see ; 
There's  the  clear,  glowing  hearth,  and  the  table  prepared, 

And  his  wife  with  their  babes  at  her  knee. 
Blest  thought!  how  it  lightens  the  grief-laden  hour, 
That  those  we  love  dearest  are  safe  from  its  power. 

"It  snows!"  cries  the  Belle  —  "Dear,  how  lucky!"  and  turns 

From  her  mirror  to  watch  the  flakes  fall ; 
Like  the  first  rose  of  summer,  her  dimpled  cheek  burns, 

While  musing  on  sleigh-ride  and  ball : 
There  are  visions  of  conquests,  of  splendour,  and  mirth, 

Floating  over  eacli  drear  winter's  day  ; 
But  the  timings  of  Hope,  on  this  snow-beaten  earth, 

Will  melt,  like  the  snow-flakes,  away : 
Turn,  turn  thee  to  Heaven,  fair  maiden,  for  bliss, 
That  world  has  a  pure  fount  ne'er  open'd  in  this. 

"It  snows!"  cries  the  Widow  —  "O  God!"  and  her  sighs 

Have  stifled  the  voice  of  her  prayer; 
Its  burden  ye  '11  read  in  her  tear-swollen  eyes, 

On  her  cheek,  sunk  with  fasting  and  care. 
'Tis  night  —  and  her  fatherless  ask  her  for  bread  — 

But  "  He  gives  the  young  ravens  their  food," 
And  she  trusts,  till  her  dark  hearth  adds  horror  to  dread, 

And  she  lays  on  her  last  chip  of  wood. 
Poor  sufPrer!  that  sorrow  thy  God  only  knows  — 
'T  is  a  most  bitter  lot  to  be  poor,  when  it  snows ! 


MARIA  JAMES 


WAS  born  in  Wales,  about  the  year  1795,  and  accompanied  her  parents 
to  this  country  when  she  was  seven  years  old.  They  were  a  poor  but 
pious  and  industrious  couple,  and  took  pains  to  implant  in  Maria's  mind 
that  fear  of  God  and  love  to  man,  which  made  her  the  conscientious, 
modest,  and  trustworthy  person  she  really  was.  They  settled  near  the 
state  quarries  of  Clinton,  New  York,  which  were  worked  chiefly  by  Welsh 
people.  After  two  years  of  schooling,  Maria  entered  the  family  of  Mrs. 
Garretson,  of  Rhinebeck,  (widow  of  the  late  Rev.  Freeborn  Garretson, 
and  sister  to  the  Hon.  Edward  Livingston,)  to  be  trained  as  a  domestic, 
where  she  had  many  opportunities  of  improving  herself,  and  was  treated 
with  the  utmost  kindness  and  attention.  Here  she  first  attempted  to  give 
expression  to  the  poetical  thoughts  that  were  awakened  within ;  but 
shrank  with  instinctive  modesty  from  the  name  of  poet,  which  was 
bestowed  on  her  by  the  family.  She  remained  until  her  seventeenth 
year  with  Mrs.  Garretson,  when  she  was  sent  to  New  York,  to  learn 
dress-making.  This  did  not  agree  with  her,  however;  so  she  sought 
and  filled  for  some  time  the  situation  of  nurse  in  the  family  of  Cle 
ment  C.  Moore,  LL.  D.,  of  New  York.  After  an  absence  of  eight  or  nine 
years,  she  returned  to  Rhinebeck,  and  proved  "  the  dignity  of  serving" 
by  her  faithfulness  and  quiet  zeal  in  the  family  of  her  beloved  mistress. 
Her  taste  for  intellectual  pleasures  never  interfered  with  or  spoiled  the 
performance  of  her  humble  domestic  duties;  but  while  occupied  in  her 
daily  housework,  she  composed  her  best  pieces,  though  weeks  would 
sometimes  elapse  before  she  committed  them  to  paper.  Nearly  all  have 
been  collected  into  a  volume,  called  Wales  and  other  Poems,  which 
was  published  in  1839,  with  an  able  introduction  by  Dr.  Potter;  who 
says,  "  Some  of  these  pieces  will  be  found,  I  trust,  to  breathe  the  true 
spirit  of  poetry;  none  will  question  that  they  breathe  a  yet  nobler 
spirit,  the  spirit  of  true  piety."  Maria  James  is  a  striking  illustration 
of  the  fact  that  true  genius,  refinement,  and  real  worth,  are  often  found 
in  stations  where  we  least  expect  them. 

(147) 


148  MARIA    JAMES 


THE     TWILIGHT     HOUR. 

THE  hues  of  parting  day 

Are  fading  in  the  west, 
And  now  the  twilight  gray 

Invites  the  swain  to  rest; 
A  welcome  pause,  a  moment  given 
To  lift  the  thoughts  from  earth  to  heaven. 

Now  memory  wakes  the  grief, 
The  joys  long,  long  gone  by; 

Nor  heeds  the  rustling  leaf 
The  breeze's  gentle  sigh : 

Dreams  of  the  past,  that  come  with  power, 

To  haunt  us  at  the  twilight  hour. 

Rise,  grov'ler!  stay  no  more, 

But  stretch  thy  feeble  wings, 
And  strive  by  faith  to  soar 

Above  terrestrial  things  ; 
Where  morn,  and  noon,  and  twilight  gray, 
Are  lost  in  one  eternal  day. 


C  HRI  STM  AS. 

LET  us  chaunt  the  solemn  lay, 
Let  us  celebrate  the  day, 
Hail  with  joy  the  auspicious  morn, 
When  the  Son  of  Man  was  born. 

Eastern  sages,  journeying  far, 
Saw  ye  not  that  beauteous  star 
Shed  its  brightest,  purest  ray, 
Where  the  King  of  Glory  lay  ? 


MARIA    JAMES.  149 

Shepherds  on  Judea's  plain, 
Heard  ye  not  the  blissful  strain, 
When  the  messengers  of  light 
Broke  the  silence  of  the  night  ? 

Babe  of  Beth'lem,  lowly  laid ! 
Angels  hover  round  thy  bed, 
Pausing  o'er  the  tuneful  lyre, 
As  they  wonder  and  admire. 

Hope  of  Israel !  welcome  thou ! 
Every  tribe  to  thee  shall  bow, 
Every  tongue  thy  right  proclaim, 
Every  land  adore  thy  name. 

Prince  of  Peace !  thy  reign  shall  be 
Wide  as  earth  from  sea  to  sea; 
Where  is  now  nor  love  nor  fear, 
There  thy  glorious  standard  rear. 

Where  the  western  wilds  have  lain. 
Ages  bound  in  error's  chain, 
There,  thy  saving  power  they  prove, 
There,  they  ehaunt  redeeming  love. 

Ethiopia's  vail  is  riven ; 
Lo,  she  lifts  her  hands  to  heaven ! 
See  her  raise  the  imploring  eye ! 
Hear  her  sable  offspring  cry:  — 

"Pour,  oh  pour  the  matchless  strain, 
Sounded  once  on  Judah's  plain ! 
Sweetest  song  since  time  began : 
'Peace  on  earth, — good-will  to  man!'" 


13 


150  MARIA     JAMES. 

GOOD-FRIDAY. 

THE  scene  is  fresh  before  us, 
When  Jesus  drain'd  the  cup, 
As  new  the  day  comes  o'er  us, 
When  He  was  offer'd  up : 

The  veil  in  sunder  rending, 
The  types  and  shadows  flee, 
While  heaven  and  earth  are  bending 
Their  gaze  on  Calvary. 

Should  mortal  dare  in  numbers, 
Where  angels  trembling  stand  ? 
Or  wake  the  harp  that  slumbers 
In  flaming  seraph's  hand  ? 

Then  tell  the  wond'rous  story 
Where  rolls  salvation's  wave, 
And  give  him  all  the  glory, 
Who  came  the  lost  to  save. 


THE     PICTURE. 

These  lines  were  suggested  by  the  writer's  calling  to  see  a  very  aged 
and  venerable  lady,  (widow  of  the  late  Benjamin  Moore,)  whom  she 
found  sitting  for  her  picture.  New  York,  June  4th,  1838. 

ERE  dissolves  the  house  of  clay, 
Ere  the  vision  melts  away, 
Ere  descend  the  tottering  walls, 
Ere  the  sacred  mantle  falls, 
Lay  the  colouring, —  mingle  there 
Mary's  love  and  Martha's  care : 
Hers  an  ear  for  others'  woe, 
Hers  the  hand,  the  heart  to  do; 
But  in  serving  had  she  rest, 
But  in  blessing  was  she  bless'd. 


JESSIE     G.     M     CARTEE. 
WHAT     IS      POETRY? 

A  LAMBENT  flame  within  the  breast; 
A  thought  harmoniously  expressed; 
A  distant  meteor's  glimmering  ray; 
A  light  that  often  leads  astray; 
A  harp,  whose  ever-varying  tone 
Might  waken  to  the  breeze's  moan 
A  lake,  in  whose  transparent  face 
Fair  nature's  lovely  form  we  trace ; 
A  blooming  flower,  in  gardens  rare, 
Yet  found  in  deserts  bleak  and  bare; 
A  charm  o'er  every  object  thrown; 
A  bright  creation  of  its  own ; 
A  burst  of  feeling,  warm  and  wild, 
From  nature's  own  impassion'd  child. 


151 


JESSIE   G.   M'CARTEE. 

ALTHOUGH  the  subject  of  this  notice  is  entirely  unknown  to  the  lite 
rary  world,  never  having  written  a  hook,  or  contributed  to  the  maga 
zines  of  the  day,  or  imprinted  her  poetry  anywhere  except  in  the  hearts 
of  her  family,  and  now  and  then  in  the  pages  of  a  country  newspaper; 
yet  we  are  gratified  by  the  permission  so  kindly  granted  us,  to 
place  her  pure  and  pious  lays  among  those  of  the  acknowledged  Amer 
ican  poetesses.  Mrs.  M'Cartee  is  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  M'Cartee, 
of  Goshen,  Orange  county,  N.  Y.,  where  she  has  lived  for  a  number 
of  years,  quietly  and  meekly  fulfilling  her  responsible  duties  as  a 
minister's  wife,  and  the  mother  of  a  very  large  family.  Her  father, 
Mr.  Divie  Bethune,  came  from  Scotland  at  an  early  age,  and  settled 
as  a  merchant  in  New  York;  where  his  active  philanthropy,  and  unos 
tentatious  benevolence,  made  him  known  to  all  classes,  rich  and  poor; 


152  JESSIE   G.   M'CARTEE. 

while,  in  a  smaller  circle,  he  was  held  up  as  a  pattern  of  those  virtues 
and  graces  which  made  him  a  perfect  Christian  gentleman.  He  died 
in  1824.  Her  mother  is  a  daughter  of  the  celebrated  Isabella  Graham, 
(whose  name  is  too  universally  loved  and  honoured  to  need  a  word  in 
passing,  pleasant  though  it  would  be  to  render  a  tribute  of  grateful 
reverence  to  her  memory,)  arid  is  herself  distinguished  in  the  religious 
world,  for  her  unwearying  energy  and  unfailing  zeal  in  the  cause  of 
suffering  humanity.  "She  stretcheth  out  her  hand  to  the  poor;  yea, 
she  reacheth  forth  her  hand  to  the  needy;"  while  multitudes  of  orphan 
"children  rise  up  and  call  her  blessed."  Dr.  Bethune  of  Philadelphia, 
the  poet,  orator,  and  divine,  is  the  only  brother  of  Mrs.  M'Cartee.  She 
has  written  much,  (though  not  for  publication,)  having  felt  all  her  life 
the  joy  and  consolation  of  poetry,  and  that  nothing  was  sweeter  than 
to  sit  in  her  quiet  parsonage,  while  her  fingers  were  busy  with  her 
needle,  and  weave  her  peaceful  thoughts  into  pleasant  rhymes  or  holy 
hymns. 


HOW     BEAUTIFUL     IS      SLEEP. 

How  beautiful  is  sleep! 
Upon  its  mother's  breast, 
How  sweet  the  infant's  rest! 
And  who  but  she  can  tell  how  dear 
Her  first-born's  breathings  'tis  to  hear. 

Gentle  babe,  prolong  thy  slumbers! 

When  the  moon  her  light  doth  shed; 

Still  she  rocks  thy  cradle  bed, 
Singing  in  melodious  numbers, 

Lulling  tliee  with  prayer  or  hymn, 

When  all  other  eyes  are  dim. 

How  beautiful  is  sleep! 
Behold  the  merry  boy ! 
His  dreams  are  full  of  joy, 
He  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  night 
With  tuneful  laugh  of  wild  delight. 


JESSIE   G.    M'CARTEE.  153 

E'en  in  sleep,  his  sports  pursuing, 

Through  the  woodland's  leafy  wild, 

Now  he  roams  a  happy  child, 
Flow'rets  all  his  pathway  strewing; 

And  the  morning's  balmy  air 

Brings  to  him  no  toil  or  care. 

How  beautiful  is  sleep! 
Where  youthful  Jacob  slept, 
Angels  their  bright  watch  kept, 
And  visions  to  his  soul  were  given, 
That  led  him  to  the  gate  of  Heaven. 

Exiled  Pilgrim!  many  a  morrow, 

When  thine  earthly  schemes  were  cross'd, 

Mourning  o'er  thy  loved  and  lost, 
Thou  didst  sigh  with  holy  sorrow 

For  that  blessed  hour  of  prayer, 

And  exclaim,  God  met  me  there! 

How  blessed  was  that  sleep 
The  sinless  Saviour  knew ! 
In  vain  the  storm  winds  blew, 
Till  he  awoke  to  others'  woes, 
And  hush'd  the  billows  to  repose. 

Why  did  ye  the  master  waken  ? 

Faithless  ones !  there  came  an  hour, 

When,  alone  in  mountain  bower, 
By  his  loved  ones  all  forsaken, 

He  was  left  to  pray  and  weep, 

When  ye  all  were  wrapp'd  in  sleep. 

How  beautiful  is  sleep ! 
The  sleep  that  Christians  know : 
Ye  mourners !  cease  your  woe, 
While  soft  upon  his  Saviour's  breast 
The  Righteous  sinks  to  endless  rest. 


154  JESSIE   G.    M'CARTEE. 

Let  him  go  I  the  day  is  breaking, 
Watch  no  more  around  his  bed, 
For  his  parted  soul  hath  fled. 

Bright  will  be  his  heavenly  waking! 
And  the  morn  that  greets  his  sight, 
Never  ends  in  death  or  night. 


THE   STREAM  IN  THE   DESERT. 

"The  Lord  spake  unto  Moses,  Gather  the  people  together,  and  I  will 
give  them  water.  Then  Israel  sang  this  song,  Spring  up,  0  well:  sing 
ye  unto  it." — Numbers  xxi.  10,  17. 

FROM  the  parch'd  bosom  of  the  desert  bursting, 
Spring  forth,  oh  stream,  to  bless  us  on  our  way; 

Revive  our  fainting  spirits,  cheer  the  thirsting, 
Spring  forth !  and  let  thy  crystal  waters  play. 

Flow  on  rejoicing,  through  the  deep  wilds  wending, 
Till  the  green  herb  shall  blossom  on  thy  brink, 

And  wild  gazelles  o'er  thy  bright  bosom  bending, 
Shall  quaff  from  thee  their  cool  refreshing  drink. 

Roll  on !  not  long  we  pitch  our  tents  beside  thee, 
Pure  fountain  for  our  fainting  spirits  made ! 

Yet  He  who  bade  thee  flow  can  fill  and  guide  thee, 
When  far  from  thee  our  pilgrim  feet  have  stray'd. 

Still  on  thy  waters  may  the  sunbeams  quiver, 
And  the  mild  moon  shed  down  her  silver  light, 

Till  with  the  billows  of  some  ancient  river 
Thy  sparkling  treasures  mingle  and  unite. 

Thus  spake  the  Hebrews,  in  the  desert  singing, 
Asking  in  faith  what  God  design'd  to  give, 

And  the  glad  water  from  the  dry  sands  springing, 
Burst  forth,  and  bade  the  dying  pilgrim  live. 


JESSIE   G.    M'CARTEE.  155 


THE     DEATH     OF      MOSES. 

LED  by  his  God,  on  Pisgah's  height 

The  pilgrim-prophet  stood; 
When  first  fair  Canaan  bless'd  his  sight, 

And  Jordan's  crystal  flood. 

Behind  him  lay  the  desert  ground 

His  weary  feet  had  trod ; 
While  Israel's  host  encamp'd  around, 

Still  guarded  by  their  God. 

With  joy  the  aged  Moses  smiled 

On  all  his  wanderings  past, 
While  thus  he  pour'd  his  accents  mild 

Upon  the  mountain  blast :  — 

"I  see  them  all  before  me  now, — 

The  city  and  the  plain, 
From  where  bright  Jordan's  waters  flow, 
To  yonder  boundless  main. 

"Oh!  there,  the  lovely  promised  land 

With  milk  and  honey  flows; 
Now,  now,  my  weary  murm'ring  band 
Shall  find  their  sweet  repose. 

"  There  groves  of  palm  and  myrtle  spread 

O'er  valleys  fair  and   wide ; 
The  lofty  cedar  rears  its  head 
On  every  mountain  side. 

"  For  them  the  rose  of  Sharon  flings 

Her  fragrance  on  the  gale ; 
And  there  the  golden  lily  springs, 
The  lily  of  the  vale. 


156 


"  Amid  the  olive's  fruitful  boughs 

Is  heard  a  song  of  love, 
For  there  doth  build  and  breathe  her  vows 
The  gentle  turtle-dove. 

"  For  them  shall  bloom  the  clustering  vine, 

The  fig-tree  shed  her  flowers, 

The  citron's  golden  treasures  shine 

From  out  her  greenest  bowers. 

"  For  them,  for  them,  but  not  for  me, 

Their  fruits  I  may  not  eat; 
Not  Jordan's  stream,  nor  yon  bright  sea, 
Shall  lave  my  pilgrim  feet. 

"  'T  is  well,  't  is  well,  my  task  is  done, 

Since  Israel's  sons  are  blest; 
Father,  receive  thy  dying  one 
To  thy  eternal  rest!" 

Alone  he  bade  the  world  farewell, 

To  God  his  spirit  fled. 
Now  to  your  tents,  oh !  Israel, 

And  mourn  your  prophet  dead! 

THE      HEAVENLY      SONG. 

"Worthy  is  the  Lamb  that  was  slain."  —  Rev.  v.  22. 

ALL  hail  to  thee !     All  hail  to  thee! 

Thou  Lamb  enthroned  in  glory ; 
We'll  praise  thee  through  eternity, 

And  cast  our  crowns  before  thee. 

No  more  the  helpless  babe  who  slept 

In  Bethlehem's  lowly  manger, 
Nor  Man  of  sorrows,  he  who  wept, 

On  earth  a  lonely  stranger. 


MRS.     GRAY.  157 


No  thorny  crown  is  round  thy  brow, 
No  more  in  anguish  bleeding, 

Angelic  hosts  before  thee  bow, 
But  not  for  mercy  pleading. 

Thy  blood-bought  flock  all  safely  rest 
Within  thy  fold  in  heaven ; 

Their  happy  souls  for  ever  blest, 
Their  many  sins  forgiven. 

All  hail  to  thee!     All  hail  to  thee! 

Thou  Lamb  enthroned  in  glory, 
We  '11  praise  thee  through  eternity, 

And  cast  our  crowns  before  thee! 


MRS.  GRAY 

Is  a  native  of  the  north  of  Ireland,  but  came  in  early  youth  to  this 
country.  The  modest  and  beautiful  flower  of  her  poetical  genius, 
(which  might  be  called  a  sensitive  plant,  so  shrinkingly  fearful  it  is  of 
being  brought  into  notice,)  belongs  therefore  to  America,  though  the 
seeds  of  it  were  sown  in  "  the  green  isle"  of  her  childhood.  Her  father's 
name  was  William  Lewers ;  he  resided  in  Castle-blayney,  where  she 
was  born  about  the  year  1800.  On  her  mother's  side,  she  is  connected 
with  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  a  Major-General  in  the  Honourable  East  India 
Company,  and  other  distinguished  officers  in  the  British  army.  On  her 
father's  side,  she  claims  relationship  with  several  of  the  warrior-patriots 
of  the  American  Revolution.  Her  husband,  Dr.  John  Gray,  is,  and  has 
been  for  more  than  twenty-five  years,  pastor  of  the  first  Presbyterian 
church  in  Easton,  Pennsylvania.  Their  residence  is  situated  among 
the  beautiful  and  romantic  scenes  that  surround  the  "  Forks  of  the 
Delaware ;"  scenes  well  calculated  to  inspire  poetry,  and  foster  devo 
tional  feeling  in  those  who  look  "through  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God." 
14 


158 


MRS.     GRAY. 


Mrs.  Gray's  effusions  are  all  of  a  serious  cast.  Her  Sabbath  Remin 
iscences  is  a  vivid  and  truthful  picture  of  persons  and  places  embalmed 
in  her  affectionate  memory.  It  has  been  published  in  an  English 
periodical,  as  presenting  a  favourable  specimen  of  American  poetry. 
We  will  not  trust  ourselves  to  speak  the  fervent  praises,  its  heart- 
melting  simplicity  awakes;  but  to  us  it  is  far  more  useful  than  the 
most  learned  and  eloquent  sermon  could  be,  upon  the  fourth  command 
ment.  Two  hundred  years  ago  kindles  enthusiasm  as  one  reads  it,  for 
it  is  full  of  holy  fire,  and  has  moreover  a  sound  like  a  far-reaching 
trumpet,  full  of  exultation  and  triumph.  Morn  was  published,  without 
the  writer's  knowledge,  in  England,  where  it  was  so  highly  appreciated 
as  to  be  translated  into  other  languages.  James  Montgomery,  of  Shef 
field,  says,  in  a  letter  to  Dr.  Gray,  "The  critics  who  have  mistaken % 
the  beautiful  stanzas,  'Morn,'  for  mine,  have  done  m-e  honour;  but  I 
willingly  forego  the  claim,  and  am  happy  to  recognise  a  sister-poet  in 
the  writer/'  As  a  writer  of  strictly  religious  poetry,  Mrs.  Gray  is,  in 
our  estimation,  almost  unrivalled. 


SABBATH      REMINISCENCES. 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember,  when  Sabbath  morning  rose, 

We    changed,    for    garments    neat   and    clean,    our    soiled    and 

week-day  clothes ; 

And  yet  no  gaud  nor  finery,  no  brooch  nor  jewel  rare, 
But  hands  and  fares  polish'd  bright,  and  smoothly-parted  hair. 
'T  was  not  the  decking  of  the  head,  my  father  used  to  say, 
But  careful  clothing  of  the  heart,  that  graced  that  holy  day; 
'T  was  not  the  bonnet  nor  the  dress ;  —  and  I  believed  it  true, 
But  those  were  very  simple  times,  and  I  was  simple  too. 

I  remember,   I  remember,  the  parlour  where  we  met ; 

Its  paper'd  walls,  its  polish'd  floor,  and  mantel  black  as  jet; 

'T  was  there  we  raised  the  morning  hymn,  melodious,  sweet, 

and  clear, 
And  joined  in  prayer  with  that  loved  voice  which  we  no  more 

may  hear. 


MRS.     GRAY.  159 

Our  morning  sacrifice  thus  made,  then  to  the  house  of  God, 
How  solemnly,  and  silently,  and  cheerfully  we  trod ! 
I  see  e'en  now  its  low-thatch'd  roof,  its  floor  of  trodden  clay, 
And  our  old  Pastor's  time-worn  face,  and  wig  of  silver  gray. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  how  hush'd  and  mute  we  were, 
While    he    led    our    spirits    up    to   God,   in   heartfelt,   melting 

prayer ; 

To  grace  his  action  or  his  voice  no  studied  charm  was  lent, 
Pure,  fervent,  glowing  from  the  heart,  so  to  the  heart  it  went. 
Then  came  the  sermon  long  and  quaint,  but  full  of  gospel 

truth,  — 

Ah  me !     I  was  no  judge  of  that,  for  I  was  then  a  youth ; 
But  I  have  heard  my  father  say,  and  well  my  father  knew, 
In  it  was  meat  for  full-grown  men,  and  milk  for  children  too. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  as  'twere  but  yesterday, 

The  Psalms  in  Rouse's  version  sung,  a  rude  but  lovely  lay; 

Nor  yet,  though  fashion's  hand  has  tried  to  train  my  way 
ward  ear, 

Can  I  find  aught  in  modern  verse  so  holy  or  so  dear! 

And  well  do   I  remember  too  our  old  precentor's  face, 

As  he  read  out  and  sung  the  line  with  patriarchal  grace ; 

Though  rudely  rustic  was  the  sound,  I  'm  sure  that  God  was 
praised, 

When  David's  words  to  David's*  tune,  five  hundred  voices 
raised. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  the  morning  sermon  done, 
And  hour  of  intermission  come,  we  wandered  in  the  sun ;  — 
How  hoary  farmers  sat  them  down   upon   the  daisy  sod, 
And  talk'd  of  bounteous  nature's  stores,  and  nature's  bounteous 
God; 


*   St.  David's   was  one  of  the   few  tunes  used   by  the  congregation 
alluded  to. 


160 


MRS.     GRAY. 


And  matrons  talk'd,  as  matrons  will,  of  sickness  and  of  health, 
Of  births,  and  deaths,  and  marriages,  of  poverty  and  wealth  • 
And  youths  and  maidens  stole  apart,  within  the  shady  grove, 
And    whisper'd   'neath    its    spreading    boughs,  perchance   some 
tale  of  love. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  how  to  the  church-yard  lone 
I've    stolen   away,  and    sat  me  down   beside    the   rude   grave 
stone, 
Or  read  the  names  of  those  who    slept  beneath  the  clay-cold 

clod, 
And  thought  of  spirits  glittering   bright  before   the  throne    of 

God; 

Or  where  the  little  rivulet  danced  sportively  and  bright, 
Receiving  on  its  limpid  breast  the  sun's  meridian  light, 
I  've  vvander'd  forth,  and  thought  if  hearts  were  pure  like  this 

sweet  stream, 
How  fair  to  heaven  they  might  reflect  heaven's  uncreated  beam. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  the  second  sermon  o'er, 
We  turn'd  our  faces  once  again  to  our  paternal  door; 
And  round  the  well-fill'd,  ample  board,  sat  no  reluctant  guest, 
For  exercise  gave  appetite,  and  loved  ones  shared  the  feast. 
Then  ere  the  sunset  hour  arrived,  as  we  were  wont  to  do, 
The    Catechism's   well-conn'd   page,  we    said    it    through   and 

through, 
And  childhood's  faltering  tongue  was  heard    to   lisp  the   holy 

word, 
And  older  voices  read  aloud  the  message  of  the  Lord. 

Away  back  in  those  days  of  yore,  perhaps  the  fault  was  mine, 
I    used    to    think    the    Sabbath-day,    dear    Lord,    was    wholly 

thine ; 
When    it    behoved    to    keep    the    heart,    and    bridle    fast    the 

tongue, 
But  those  were  very  simple  times,  and  I  was  very  young ; 


MRS.     GRAY.  161 

The  world  has  grown  much  older  since  those  sun-bright  Sab 
bath  days, 

The  world  has  grown  much  older  since,  and  she  has  changed 
her  ways ; 

Some  say  that  she  has  wiser  grown,  —  ah  me!  it  may  be  true, 

As  wisdom  comes  by  length  of  days  —  but  so  does  dotage  too. 

Oh!  happy,  happy  days  of  youth,  how  beautiful,  how  fair, 
To  memory's  retrospective  eye,  your  trodden  pathways  are ! 
The    thorns    forgot,    remember'd    still    the    fragrance    and    the 

flowers, 

The  loved  companions  of  my  youth,  and  sunny  Sabbath  hours ! 
And  onward,  onward,  onward  still  successive  Sabbaths  come, 
As  guides  to  lead  us  on  the  road  to  our  eternal  home, 
Or  like  the  vision'd  ladder  once  to  slumbering  Jacob  given, 
From  heaven  descending  to  the  earth,  led  back  from  earth  to 

heaven ! 


TWO      HUNDRED      YEARS      AGO. 

Written  for  the  bi-centennial  celebration   of  the   theological  standards 
by  the  illustrious  Westminster  assembly  of  divines. 

Two  hundred  years,  two  hundred  years,  our  bark  o'er  billowy 

seas, 
Has    onward    kept    her    steady  course,  through    hurricane    and 

breeze ; 

Her  Captain  was  the  mighty  One,  she  braved  the  stormy  foe, 
And  still  He  guides  who  guided  her,  two  hundred  years  ago. 

Her  chart  was  God's  unerring  word,  by  which  her  course  to 

steer, 

Her  helmsman   was  the  risen  Lord,  a  helper  ever  near; 
Though  many  a  beauteous  boat  has  sunk  the  treacherous  wave 

below, 
Yet  ours  is  sound  as  she  was  built,  two  hundred  years  ago. 

14*  L 


162  MRS.     GRAY. 

The  wind  that  fill'd  her  swelling  sheet  from  many  a  point 
has  blown, 

Still  urging  her  unchanging  course  through  shoals  and  break 
ers  on, 

Her  fluttering  pennon  still  the  same  whatever  breeze  might 
blow, 

It  pointed,  as  it  does  to  heaven,  two  hundred  years  ago. 

When  first  our  gallant  ship  was  launch'd,  although  her  hands 

were  few, 
Yet   dauntless  was    each   bosom    found,  and    every  heart   was 

true ! 
And    still,    though    in    her    mighty    hull    unnumber'd    bosoms 

glow, 
Her  crew  is  faithful,  as  it  was  two  hundred  years  ago! 

True,  some  have  left  this  noble  craft,  to  sail  the  seas  alone, 
And  made  them  in  their  hour  of  pride  a  vessel  of  their  own ; 
Ah  me !  when  clouds   portentous   rise,  when  threatening  tem 
pests  blow, 
They  '11  wish  for  that  old  vessel  built  two  hundred  years  ago  I 

For  onward  rides  our  gallant  bark,  with  all  her  canvass  set, 
In  many  a  nation  still  unknown,  to  plant  her  standard  yet; 
Her  flag  shall  float  where'er  the  breeze  of  freedom's  breath 

shall  blow, 
And    millions   bless    the   boat    that    sail'd  two   hundred    years 

ago! 

On  Scotia's  coast,  in  days  of  yore,  she  lay  almost  a  wreck, 
Her  mainmast  gone,  her  rigging  torn,  the  boarders  on  the 

deck, 
There  Cameron,  Cargill,  Cochran  fell,  there  Renwick's    blood 

did  flow, 
Defending  our  good  vessel  built  two  hundred  years  ago! 


J 


MRS.     GRAY.  163 

Ah!   many  a   martyr's   blood    was    shed,  we    may   not   name 

them  all ; 

They  tore  the  peasant  from  his  hut,  the  noble  from  his  hall ; 
Then,  brave  Argyle,  thy  father's  blood  for  faith  did  freely  flow, 
And  pure  the  stream  as  was  the  fount  two  hundred  years 

ago! 

Yet  onward  still  our  vessel  press'd,  and  weather'd  out  the  gale ; 
She  clear'd  the  wreck,  and  spliced  the  mast,  and  mended  every 

sail; 

And  swifter,  stauncher,  mightier  far,  upon  her  cruise  did  go ; 
Strong  hands  and   gallant  hearts   had   she  two  hundred  years 


And   see   her   now  on   beam-ends   cast,  beneath   a   north-west 

storm, 

Heave  overboard  the  very  bread  to  save  the  ship  from  harm ; 
She  rights  !  she  rides !  hark  how  they  cheer,  All 's  well !  above, 

below ! 
She's  tight  as  when  she  left   the   stocks   two   hundred   years 

ago. 

True  to  that  guiding  star  which  led  to  Israel's  cradled  hope, 
Her  steady  needle  pointeth  yet  to  Calvary's  bloody  top! 
Yes,  there  she  floats,  that   good  old  ship,  from  mast   to   keel 

below 
Sea-worthy  still,  as  erst  she  was    two  hundred  years  ago! 

Not  unto  us,  not  unto  us,  be  praise  or  glory  given, 

But   unto    Him   who   watch   and  ward    hath    kept    for   us   in 

heaven ; 
Who  quell'd  the  whirlwind  in  its  wrath,  bade   tempests  cease 

to  blow, 
That  God  who  launch'd  our  vessel  forth    two   hundred  years 

ago! 


164  MRS.     GRAY. 

Then  onward    speed    thee,  brave    old   bark,  speed    onward   in 

thy  pride, 

O'er  sunny  seas  and  billows  dark,  Jehovah  still  thy  guide ; 
And  sacred  be  each  plank  and  spar,  unchanged  by  friend  or  foe, 
Just  as  she  left  Old  Westminster,  two  hundred  years  ago ! 

MORN. 

IN     IMITATION     OF     "NIGHT,"     BY    MONTGOMERY. 

MORN  is  the  time  to  wake, 

The  eyelids  to  unclose; 
Spring  from  the  arms  of  sleep,  and  break 

The  fetters  of  repose ; 
Walk  at  the  dewy  dawn  abroad, 
And  hold  sweet  fellowship  with  God. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  pray; 

How  lovely  and  how  meet, 
To  send  our  earliest  thoughts  away 

Up  to  the  mercy-seat ! 
Ambassadors  for  us,  to  claim 
A  blessing  in  our  Master's  name. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  sing; 

How  charming  'tis  to  hear 
The  mingling  notes  of  nature  ring 

In  the  delighted  ear ! 
And  with  that  swelling  anthem  raise 
The  soul's  fresh  matin-song  of  praise ! 

Morn  is  the  time  to  sow 

The  seeds  of  heavenly  truth, 
While  balmy  breezes  softly  blow 

Upon  the  soil  of  youth ; 
And  look  to  thee,  nor  look  in  vain, 
Our  God,  for  sunshine  and  for  rain. 


MRS.     GRAY.  165 

Morn  is  the  time  to  love ; 

As  tendrils  of  the  vine, 
The  young  affections  fondly  rove 

And  seek  them   where  to  twine. 
Around  thyself,  in   thine  embrace, 
Lord,  let  them  find  their  resting-place! 

Morn  is  the  time  to  shine ; 

When  skies  are  clear  and  blue, 
Reflect  the  rays  of  light  divine, 

As  morning  dew-drops  do; 
Like  early  stars,  be  early  bright, 
And  melt  away  like  them,  in  light ! 

Morn  is  the  time  to  weep 

O'er  morning  hours  misspent; 
Alas !  how  oft  from  peaceful  sleep, 

On  folly  madly  bent, 
We've  left  the  strait  and  narrow  road, 
And  wander'd  from  our  guardian  God. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  think, 

While  thoughts  are  fresh  and  free, 

Of  life,  just  balanced  on  the  brink 
Of  vast  eternity ! 

To  ask  our  souls  if  they  are  meet 

To  stand  before  the  judgment-seat. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  die; 

Just  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
When  stars  are  fading  in  the  sky, 

To  fade  like  them  away ; 
But  lost  in  light  more  brilliant  far 
Than  ever  merged  the  morning  star. 


166  ELIZA     FOLLEN. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  rise  — 
The  resurrection  morn ! 

Upspringing  from  the  glorious  skies 
On  new-found  pinions  borne, 

To  meet  my  Saviour's  smile  divine; 

Be  such  ecstatic  rising  mine! 


ELIZA  FOLLEN 

WAS  born  in  Boston,  but  now  resides  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts. 
She  was  married  in  September,  1828,  to  Professor  Charles  Follen,  who 
perished  in  the  conflagration  of  the  steamer  Lexington,  in  the  winter  of 
1839.  Her  chief  work  is  the  Memoir  of  her  husband,  published  in  five 
volumes ;  but  several  other  interesting  books  in  prose  have  appeared 
from  her  pen :  Sketches  of  Married  Life,  The  Skeptic,  The  Well-spent 
Hour,  Selections  from  Fenelon,  The  Warning,  &c.  In  poetry,  she 
has  written  Hymns,  Songs,  and  Fables  for  children ;  and  another  little 
book  called  Nursery  Songs.  A  volume  of  Poems  was  published  in 
Boston  in  1839;  from  which  we  select  the  following  pieces,  as  a  fair 
specimen  of  her  sweet  and  serious  style. 

WINTER  SCENES  IN  THE   COUNTRY. 

THE  short,  dull,  rainy  day  drew  to  a  close ; 
No  gleam  burst  forth  upon  the  western  hills, 
With  smiling  promise  of  a  brighter  day, 
Dressing  the  leafless  woods  with  golden  light; 
But  the  dense  fog  hung  its  dark  curtain  round, 
And  the  unceasing  rain  pour'd  like  a  torrent  on. 
The  wearied  inmates  of  the  house  draw  near 
The  cheerful  fire;  the  shutters  all  are  closed; 


ELIZA     FOLLEN. 

A  brightening  look  spreads  round,  that  seems  to  say, 

Now  let  the  darkness  and  the  rain  prevail; 

Here  all  is  bright!     How  beautiful  is  the  sound 

Of  the  descending  rain !  how  soft  the  wind 

Through  the  wet  branches  of  the  drooping  elms ! 

But  hark  !  far  off,  beyond  the  sheltering  hills, 

Is  heard  the  gathering  tempest's  distant  swell, 

Threatening  the  peaceful  valley  ere  it  comes. 

The  stream,  that  glided  through  its  pebbly  way 

To  its  own  sweet  music,  now  roars  hoarsely  on ; 

The  woods  send  forth  a  deep  and  heavy  sigh; 

The  gentle  south  has  ceased  ;  the  rude  northwest, 

Rejoicing  in  his  strength,  comes  rushing  forth. 

The  rain  is  changed  into  a  driving  sleet, 

And  when  the  fitful  wind  a  moment  lulls, 

The  feathery  snow,  almost  inaudible, 

Falls  on  the  window-panes  as  soft  and  still 

As  the  light  brushings  of  an  angel's  wings, 

Or  the  sweet  visitings  of  quiet  thoughts 

'Midst  the  wild  tumult  of  this  stormy  life. 

The  tighten'd  strings  of  nature's  ceaseless  harp 

Send  forth  a  shrill  and  piercing  melody, 

As  the  full  swell  returns.     The  night  comes  on, 

And  sleep  upon  this  little  world  of  ours 

Spreads  out  her  sheltering,  healing  wings;  and  man  — 

The  heaven-inspired  soul  of  this  fair  earth, 

The  bold  interpreter  of  nature's  voice, 

Giving  a  language  even  to  the  stars  — 

Unconscious  of  the  throbbings  of  his  heart, 

Is  still;  and  all  unheeded  is  the  storm, 

Save  by  the  wakeful  few  who  love  the  night; 

Those  pure  and  active  spirits  that  are  placed 

As  guards  o'er  wayward  man ;  they  who  show  forth 

God's  holy  image  on  the  soul  impress'd, 

They  listen  to  the  music  of  the  storm, 


ELIZA     FOLLEN. 

And  hold  high  converse  with  the  unseen  world; 
They  wake,  and  watch,  and  pray,  while  others  sleep. 

^  The  stormy  night  has  pass'd ;  the  eastern  clouds 
Glow  with  the  morning's  ray;  but  who  shall  tell 
The  peerless  glories  of  this  winter  day  ? 
Nature  has  put  her  jewels  on ;  one  blaze 
Of  sparkling  light  and  ever-varying  hues 
Bursts  on  the  enraptured  sight. 
The  smallest  twig  with  brilliants  hangs  its  head; 
The  graceful  elm  and  all  the  forest  trees 
Have  on  a  crystal  coat  of  mail,  and  seem 
All  deck'd  and  trick'd  out  for  a  holiday, 
And  every  stone  shines  in  its  wreath  of  gems. 
The  pert,  familiar  robin,  as  he  flies 
From  spray  to  spray,  showers  diamonds  round, 
And  moves  in  rainbow  light  where'er  he  goes. 
The  universe  looks  glad;  but  words  are  vain, 
To  paint  the  wonders  of  the  splendid  show. 
The  heart  exults  with  uncontroll'd  delight. 
The  glorious  pageant  slowly  moves  away, 
As  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  western  hills. 
So  fancy,  for  a  short  and  fleeting  day, 
May  shed  upon  the  cold  and  barren  earth 
Her  bright  enchantments  and  her  dazzling  hues ; 
And  thus  they  melt  and  fade  away,  and  leave 
A  cold  and  dull  reality  behind. 

But  see  where  in  the  clear,  unclouded  sky, 
The  crescent  moon,  with  calm  and  sweet  rebuke, 
Doth  charm  away  the  spirit  of  complaint. 
Her  tender  light  falls  on  the  snow-clad  hills, 
Like  the  pure  thoughts  that  angels  might  bestow 
Upon  this  world  of  beauty,  and  of  sin, 
That  mingle  not  with  that  whereon  they  rest;  — 


ELIZA     FOLLEN.  169 

So  should  immortal  spirits  dwell  below. 
There  is  a  holy  influence  in  the  moon, 
And  in  the  countless  hosts  of  silent  stars, 
The  heart  cannot  resist :  its  passions  sleep, 
And  all  is  still;  save  that  which  shall  awake 
When  all  this  vast  and  fair  creation  sleeps. 

ON     THE      DEATH     OF     A     BEAUTIFUL      GIRL. 

THE  young,  the  lovely  pass  away, 

Ne'er  to  be  seen  again ; 
Earth's  fairest  flowers  too  soon  decay ; 

Its  blasted  trees  remain. 

Full  oft  we  see  the  brightest  thing 

Thai  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Smile  in  the  light,  then  droop  its  wing, 

And  fade  away,  and  die. 

And  kindly  is  the  lesson  given, 

Then  dry  the  falling  tear; 
They  came  to  raise  our  hearts  to  heaven, 

They  go  to  call  us  there. 

"TO     WHOM      SHALL     WE      GO?" 

WHEN  our  purest  delights  are  nipt  in  the  blossom, 

When  those  we  love  best  are  laid  low, 
When  grief  plants  in  secret  her  thorns  in  the  bosom. 

Deserted,  "  to  whom  shall  we  go  ?" 

When  error  bewilders,  and  our  path  becomes  dreary, 

And  tears  of  despondency  flow ; 
When  the  whole  head  is  sick,  and  the  whole  heart  is  weary, 

Despairing,  "  to  whom  shall  we  go  ?" 
15 


170  ELIZA     FOLLEN. 

When  the  sad,  thirsty  spirit  turns  from  the  springs 

Of  enchantment  this  life  can  bestow, 
And  sighs  for  another,  and  flutters  its  wings. 

Impatient,  "  to  whom  shall  we  go  ?" 

O,  blest  be  that  light  which  has  parted  the  clouds, 

A  path  to  the  pilgrim  to  show, 
That  pierces  the  veil  which  the  future  enshrouds, 

And  shows  us  to  whom  we  may  go. 

TO     MY     JEOLl  AN     HARP, 

AS     IT    WAS     PLAYING     ON    A     COLD,     STORMY    DAY. 

SAY,  was  it,  my  harp,  the  invisible  wing 
Of  a  spirit  that  pass'd  o'er  thy  musical  string  ? 
And  comes  it  in  love,  with  its  light,  airy  hand, 
To  play  me  a  song  from  the  heavenly  land  ? 

Though  chill  is  the  wind,  and  fitful  it  blows, 
Yet  sweet  as  in  summer  thy  music  still  flows ; 
But,  when  rages  the  blast,  and  contending  wjnds  roar, 
In  silence  you  wait  till  the  tempest  is  o'er. 

And  thus,  like  thy  strings,  is  the  virtuous  mind, 

Harmonious  e'en  in  adversity's  wind  ; 

But,  when  by  the  tempests  of  life  it  is  driven, 

It  remembers,  in  silence,  the  storm  is  from  Heaven. 

THE      LITTLE      SPRING. 

BENEATH  a  green  and  mossy  bank 
There  flows  a  clear  and  fairy  stream ; 

There  the  pert  squirrel  oft  has  drank, 

And  thought,  perhaps, 't  was  made  for  him. 

Their  pitchers  there  the  labourers  fill, 
As  drop  by  drop  the  crystals  flow, 


LOUISA     JANE     HALL.  171 

Singing  their  silvery  welcome  still 
To  all  who  to  the  fountain  go. 

Then  to  the  river  on  it  glides, 

Its  tributary  drop  to  bear ; 
Its  modest  head  a  moment  hides, 

Then  rises  up  and  sparkles'  there. 

The  touching  lesson  on  my  heart 
Falls  like  the  gentle  dews  of  heaven, 

Bids  me  with  humble  love  impart 
The  little  treasure  God  has  given. 

For  from  a  source  as  small  as  this 

Full  many  a  cup  of  joy  may  flow, 
And  on  the  stream  of  human  bliss 

Its  little  ray  of  gladness  throw. 


LOUISA  JANE  HALL 

WAS  born  at  Newburyport,  Massachusetts,  February  7th,  1802.  Her 
father,  Dr.  John  Park,  was  a  physician ;  but  at  that  time  he  had  given 
up  the  practice  of  his  profession,  and  was  editing-  the  Repertory,  a 
well-known  federal  paper.  In  1811,  he  opened  a  school  for  young 
ladies  in  Boston,  (to  which  city  lie  had  removed  several  years  before,) 
with  a  view  of  giving  his  daughter  a  more  liberal  education  than  was 
common  at  that  period,  and  keeping  her  at  the  same  time  under  his 
own  immediate  care.  She  improved  her  advantages  to  the  utmost; 
the  chaste  and  correct  style  of  her  writings  shows  that  the  study  and 
discipline  of  her  early  years  must  have  been  thorough  and  unwavering. 
None  of  her  poems  appeared  in  print  until  after  she  was  twenty ;  they 
were  then  published  anonymously  in  the  Literary  Gazette,  and  other 
periodicals.  Dr.  Park  removed  to  Worcester,  Mass.,  in  1831,  accom- 


I 

L 


172  LOUISA     JANE     HALL. 

panied  by  his  daughter,  who  lived  with  him  until  October,  1840,  when 
she  married  the  Rev.  E.  B.  Hall,  of  Providence,  R.  I.,  where  she  still 
resides. 

Miriam,  a  Dramatic  Sketch,  the  admirable  production  on  which  Mrs. 
Hall's  fame  as  a  poet  chiefly  rests,  was  beg  m  in  the  summer  of  1826, 
and  finished  the  following  summer.  Not  believing  that  it  possessed 
sufficient  merit  to  claim  attention  from  the  literary  world,  she  allowed 
ten  years  to  pass  before  publishing  it;  then  the  commendations  it  re 
ceived,  which  were  neither  faint  nor  few,  surprised  no  one  so  much  as 
its  modest  author.  The  story  is  simple  and  interesting  ;  the  characters 
are  drawn  with  much  spirit  and  skill ;  and  some  passages  display  no 
ordinary  amount  of  power  and  pathos.  Her  other  principal  work  is  in 
prose,  Joanna  of  Naples,  an  Historical  Tale;  published  in  1838.  Ill 
health,  failure  of  eyesight,  and  great  distrust  of  her  own  powers,  have 
prevented  her  from  being  a  very  prolific  writer;  but  her  essays  and 
reviews  which  have  occasionally  appeared,  and  her  successful  efforts 
in  poetry,  prove  that  the  deficiency  lies,  not  in  the  talent,  but  the  will 
to  use  it. 


PRAYER. 

(FROM   MIRIAM.) 
THRASENO. 

WHERE  wouldst  thou  seek  for  peace  or  quietness, 
If  not  beside  the  altar  of  thy  God  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Within  these  mighty  walls  of  sceptred  Rome 

A  thousand  temples  rise  unto  her  gods, 

Bearing  their  lofty  domes  unto  the  skies, 

Graced  with  the  proudest  pomp  of  earth ;  their  shrines 

Glittering  with  gems,  their  stately  colonnades. 

Their  dreams  of  genius  wrought  into  bright  forms, 

Instinct  with  grace  and  godlike  majesty, 

Their  ever-smoking  altars,  white-robed  priests, 

And  all  the  pride  of  gorgeous  sacrifice. 

And  yet  these  things  are  naught.     Rome's  prayers  ascend 

To  greet  th'  unconscious  skies,  in  the  blue  void 


LOUISA     JANE     HALL.  173 

Lost  like  the  floating  breath  of  frankincense, 
And  find  no  hearing  or  acceptance  there. 
And  yet  there  is  an  Eye  that  ever  marks 
Where  its  own  people  pay  their  simple  vows, 
Though  to  the  rocks,  the  caves,  the  wilderness, 
Scourged  by  a  stern  and  ever-watchful  foe! 
There  is  an  Ear  that  hears  the  voice  of  prayer 
Rising   from  lonely  spots  where  Christians  meet, 
Although  it  stir  not  more  the  sleeping  air 
Than  the  soft  waterfall,  or  forest  breeze. 
Think'st  thou,  my  father,  this  benignant  God 
Will  close  his  ear,  and  turn  in  wrath  away 
From  the  poor  sinful  creature  of  his  hand, 
Who  breathes  in  solitude  her  humble  prayer  ? 
Think'st  thou  He  will  not  hear  me,  should  I  kneel 
Here  in  the  dust  beneath  his  starry  sky, 
And  strive  to  raise  my  voiceless  thoughts  to  Him, 
Making  an  altar  of  my  broken  heart  ? 


MIRIAM    EXPLAINS    TO    PAULUS    WHY    THEY    MUST    PART. 

(FROM    THE    SAME.) 
PAULUS. 

My  brain  is  pierced ! 

Mine 'eyes  with  blindness  smitten!  and  mine  ear 
Rings  faintly  with  the  echo  of  thy  words  ! 
Henceforth  what  man  shall  ever  build  his  faith 
On  woman's  love,  on  woman's  constancy  ? 
Maiden!  look  up!  I  would  but  gaze  once  more 
Upon  that  open  brow  and  clear,  dark  eye, 
To  read  what  aspect  Perjury  may  wear, 
What  garb  of  loveliness  may  Falsehood  use, 
To  lure  the  eye  of  guileless,  manly  love ! 
Cruel,  cold-blooded,  fickle  that  thou  art, 
Dost  thou  not  quail  beneath  thy  lover's  eye  ? 
15* 


174  LOUISA     JANE     HALL. 

How!  there  is  light  within  thy  lofty  glance, 
A  flush  upon  thy  cheek,  a  settled  calm 
Upon  thy  lip  and  brow ! 

MIRIAM. 

Ay,  even  so. 

A  light  —  a  flush  —  a  calm  —  not  of  this  earth! 
For  in  this  hour  of  bitterness  and  woe, 
The  Grace  of  God  is  falling  on  my  soul, 
Like  dews  upon  the  with'ring  grass  which  late 
Red  scorching  flames  have  sear'd.     Again 
The  consciousness  of  faith,  of  sins  forgiven, 
Of  wrath  appeased,  of  heavy  guilt  thrown  off, 
Sheds  on  my  breast  its  long-forgotten  peace, 
And  shining  steadfast  as  the  noonday  sun, 
Lights  me  along  the  path  that  duty  marks. 
Lover  too  dearly  loved !  a  long  farewell ! 
The  bannerM  field  —  the  glancing  spear  —  the  shout 
That  bears  the  victor's  name  unto  the  skies, — 

The  laurell'd  brow  —  be  thine 

p  A  u  L  u  s . 

Maid  !  —  now  hear  me  ! 

For  by  thine  own  false  vows  and  broken  faith, 
By  thy  deceitful  lips,  and  dark,  cold  heart 

MIRIAM. 

Great  God,  support  me  now!  —  It  cannot  be 
That  from  my  Paulus'  lips  such  bitter  words 

p  A  u  L  u  s . 
Such  bitter  words !  nay,  maiden,  what  were  thine  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Mine  were  not  spoken,  love,  in  heat  or  wrath, 
But  in  th'  uprightness  of  a  heart  that  knew 
Its  duty  both  to  God  and  man,  and  sought 
Peace  with  its  Maker  —  ere  it  broke.     But  thou 

PAULUS. 
And  I  ?  —  thou  false  one !  am  not  I  a  man  ? 


LOUISA     JANE     HALL.  175 

A  Roman  too  ?  and  is  a  Roman's  heart 
A  plaything  made  for  girls  to  toy  withal, 
And  then  to  keep  or  idly  fling  away, 
As  the  light  fancy  of  the  moment  prompts  ? 
Have  I  then  stoop'd  to  win  thy  fickle  love 
From  my  proud  pinnacle  of  rank  and  fame, 
Wasting  my  youth's  best  season  on  a  dream, 
Forgetful  of  my  name,  my  sire,  my  gods, 
To  be  thus  trifled   with  and  scorri'd  at  last  ? 

MIRIAM. 

Canst  thou  not  learn  to  hate  me  ? 

p  A  u  L  u  s . 
O  ye  gods ! 
With  what  a  look  of  calm  despair 

MIRIAM. 

Ay,  Paulus ! 

Never,  in  all  rny  deep  despondency, 
In  all  the  hours  of  dark  presentiment 
In  which  rny  fancy  often  conjured  up 
This  scene  of  trial  —  did  my  spirit  dream 
Of  bitterness  like  that  which  now  thy  hand 
Is  pouring  in  my  cup  of  life.     Alas! 
Must  we  then  part  in  anger?  shall  this  hour, 
With  harsh  upbraidings  marr'd 

PAULUS. 

Syren  !  in  vain  — 

Would  I  could  learn  to  hate  thee !  trampling  down 
The  mem'ry  of  my  fond  and  foolish  love, 
As  I  would  crush  an  adder  'neath  my  heel ! 
But  no !  the  poison  rankles  in  my  veins ;  — 
It  may  IK  t  be;  —  each  look  and  tone  of  thine 
Tells  me  that  yet  thou  art  my   bosom's  queen, 
And  each  vain,  frantic  struggle  only  draws 
Closer  around  my  heart  the  woven  toils. 

\J1  pause. 


176  LOUISA     JANE     HALL. 

Miriam!  my  pride  is  bow'd  —  my  wrath  subdued  — 

My  heart  attuned  e'en  to  thy  slightest  will, — 

So  that  thou  yet  wilt  let  me  linger  on, 

Hoping  and  dreaming  that  thou  hat'st  me  not, 

Sufler'd  to  come  at  times,  and  sadly  gaze 

Upon  thy  loveliness,  as  if  thou  wert 

A  Dian  shrined  within  her  awful  fane, 

Made  to  be  look'd  upon  and  idolized, 

But  in  whose  presence  passion's  lightest  pulse, 

Love's  gentlest  whisper,  were  a,  deadly  sin. 

Cast  me  not  from  thee,  love !  send  me  not  forth 

Blasted  and  wan  into  a  heartless  world, 

Amid  its  cold  and  glittering  pageantry, 

To  learn  what  utter  loneliness  of  soul, 

What  wordless,  deep,  and  sick'ning  misery, 

Is  in  the  sense  of  unrequited  love ! 

MIRIAM. 

I  cannot  —  must  not  hear  thee.     Even  now 
A  chord  is  louch'd  within  my  soul.  —  Great  God! 
Where  is  the  strength  thou  didst  vouchsafe  of  late  ? 
Anger  —  reproach  —  were  better  borne  than  this! 

P  A  U  L  U  S . 

Why  should  thy  gentle  nature  thus  be  crush'd  ? 
Is  not  the  voice  within  thee  far  more  just 
Than  the  harsh  dictates  of  thy  gloomy  faith  ? 
Thy  stern  and   unrelenting  Deity 

MIRIAM. 

Youth!  thou  remindest  me  —  thou  dost  blaspheme 
The  God  of  Mercy  whom  I  serve;  and  now 
Courage  and  strength  return  at  once  to  nerve 
My  trembling  limbs,  my  weak  and  yielding  soul. 
What  wouldst  thou  have  ?  that  I  should  yet  drag  on 
A  life  of  dark  and  vile  hypocrisy, 
Days  full  of  fear  and  nights  of  vain  remorse, 
And  love,  though  sinless,  yet  not  innocent? 


LOUISA     JANE     HALL.  177 

For  well  I  know  that  when  thy  sunny  smiles 

Are  on  me,  sternly  frowning  doth  look  down 

My  Maker  on  our  stolen  interview ! 

It  is  a  crime  of  dye  too  deep  and  dark 

To  be  wash'd  out  but  with  a  life  of  tears, 

And  penitence,  and  utler  abstinence. 

1  never  will  behold  thy  face  again  ! 

My  soul  shall  be  unlock'd  and  purified, 

And  there  the  eyes  of  those  that  love  me  well 

Shall  find  no  dark  and  sinful  mystery, 

Shunning  a  tender  father's  scrutiny, 

And  weighing  down  my  spirit  to  the  dust. 

Paulus  !  —  again  —  farewell !  yet  —  yet  in  peace 
We  part! 

PAULUS. 

Maiden !  by  all  my  perish'd  hopes, 
By  the  o'erwhelming  passion  of  my  soul, 
By  the  remembrance  of  that  fatal  hour 
When  first  I  spake  to  thee  of  love  —  and  thought 

That  thou Ay !  by  the  sacred  gods,  I  swear, 

I  will  not  yield  thee  thus !     In  open  day, 

Before  my  father's  eyes  —  and  bearing  too 

Perchance  his  malediction  on  my  head  — 

Before  the  face  of  all  assembled   Koine, 

Bann'd  though  I  be  by  all  her  priests  and  gods, — 

Thee  —  thee  will  I  lead  forth  —  my  Christian  bride! 

MIRIAM. 

Ay  !  sayst  thou  so,  my  Paulus  ?  thou  art  bold, 
And  generous.     Meet  bridal  will  it  be  — 
The  stake  —  the  slow  red  fire  —  perchance  the  den 
Of  hungry  lions,  gnashing  with  white  teeth 
In  savage  glee  at  sight  of  thy  young  bride, 
Their  destined  prey !  for  well  thou  knovv'st  that  these 
Are  but  the  tend'rest  mercies  of  thy  sire 
To  the  scorn'd  sect,  whose  lofty  faith  my  soul 

M 


178  LOUISA     JANE     HALL. 

Holds  fast  through  torments  worse  than  aught  that  these 
Can  offer  to  the  clay  wherein  it  dwells. 

p  AULU  s. 

Drive  me  not  mad  !  —  Nay  —  nay  —  I  have  not  done ; 
The  dark  cold  waters  of  despair  rise  fast, 
But  have  not  yet  o'ertopp'd  each  resting-place. 
We  will  go  forth  upon  the  bounding  sea, 
We  two  alone,  and  chase  the  god  of  day 
O'er  the  broad  ocean,  where  each  eve  he  dips 
His  blazing  chariot  in  the  western  wave, 
And  seek  some  lonely  isle  of  peace  and  love, 
Where  lingering  summer  dwells  the  livelong  year, 
Wasting  the  music  of  her  happy  birds, 
The  unpluck'd  richness  of  her  golden  fruits, 
The  fragrance  of  her  blossoms  o'er  the  land. 
And  we  will  be  the  first  to  tread  the  turf, 
And  raise  our  quiet  hearth  and  altars  there, 
And  thou  shall  fearless  bow  before  the  Cross, 
Praying  unto  what  unknown  God  thou  wilt, 
While  I- 

MIRIAM. 

No  more,  my  Paulus !  it  is  vain. 

Why  should  we  thus  unnerve  our  souls  with  dreams, 
With  fancies  wilder,  idler  far  than  dreams  ? 
Our  destiny  is  fix'd !  the  hour  is  come! 
And  wilt  thou  that  a  frail  and  trembling  girl 
Should  meet  its  anguish  with  a  steadier  soul 
Than  thine,  proud  soldier! 

MIRIAM    APPEALS    TO    THE    HEART    OF    PISO. 

(FROM    THE    SAME.) 
PISO. 

Bold  maiden! 

While  thou  art  safe,  go  hence;  for  in  his  might 
The  tiger  wakes  within  me ! 


LOUISA     JANE     HALL.  179 

MIRIAM. 

Be  it  so. 

He  can  but  rend  me  where  I  stand.     And  here, 
Living  or  dying,  will  I  raise  my  voice 
In  a  firm  hope]     The  God  that  brought  me  here 
Is  round  me  in  the  silent  air.     On  me 
Falleth  the  influence  of  an  unseen  Eye  ! 
And  in  the  strength  of  secret,  earnest  prayer, 
This  awful  consciousness  doth  nerve  my  frame. 
Thou  man  of  evil  and  ungovern'd  soul ! 
My  father  thou  mayst  slay !     Flames  will  not  fall 
From  heaven  to  scorch  and  wither  thee !     The  earth 
Will  gape  not  underneath  thy  feet!  and  peace, 
Mock,  hollow,  seeming  peace,  may  shadow  still 
Thy  home  and  hearth !     But  deep  within  thy  breast 
A  fierce,  consuming  fire  shall  ever  dwell. 
Each  night  shall  ope  a  gulf  of  horrid  dreams 
To  swallow  up  thy  soul.     The  livelong  day 
That  soul  shall  yearn  for  peace  and  quietness, 
As  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water  brooks, 
And  know  that  even  in  death  —  is  no  repose! 
And  this  shall  be  thy  life!     Then  a  dark  hour 

Will  surely  come 

PI  s  o. 

Maiden,  be  warn'd !     All  this 
I  know.     It  moves  me  not. 

MIRIAM. 

Nay,  one  thing  more 

Thou  knowest  not.     There  is  on  all  this  earth  — 
Full  as  it  is  of  young  and  gentle  hearts  — 
One  man  alone  that  loves  a  wretch  like  thee; 
And  he,  thou  say'st,  must  die  !     All  other  eyes 
Do  greet  thee  with  a  cold  or  wrathful  look, 
Or,  in  the  baseness  of  their  fear,  shun  thine ; 
And  he  whose  loving  glance  alone  spake  peace, 


180  LOUISA    JANE     HALL. 

Thou   say'st   must   die   in   youth !      Thou   know'st   not 

yet 

The  deep  and  bitter  sense  of  loneliness, 
The  throes  and  achings  of  a  childless  heart, 
Which  yet  will  all  be  thine !     Thou  know'st  not  yet 
What  'tis  to  wander  'mid  thy  spacious  halls, 
And  find  them  desolate !  wildly  to  start 
From  thy  deep  musings  at  the  distant  sound 
Of  voice  or  step  like  his,  and  sink  back  sick  — 
Ay!  sick  at  heart  —  with  dark  remembrances! 
To  dream  thou  seest  him  as  in  years  gone  by. 
When  in  his  bright  and  joyous  infancy, 
His  laughing  eyes  amid  thick  curls  sought  thine, 
And  his  soft  arms  were  twined  around  thy  neck, 
And  his  twin  rosebud  lips  just  lisp'd  thy  name  — 
Yet  feel  in  agony  'tis  but  a  dream! 
Thou  know'st  not  yet  what  'tis  to  lead  the  van 
Of  armies  hurrying  on  to  victory, 
Yet,  in  the  pomp  and  glory  of  that  hour, 
Sadly  to  miss  the  well-known  snowy  plume, 
Whereon  thine  eyes  were  ever  proudly  fix'd 
In  battle-field  !  —  to  sit,  at  midnight  deep, 
Alone  within  thy  tent  —  all  shuddering  — 
When,  as  the  curtain'd  door  lets  in  the  breeze, 
Thy  fancy  conjures  up  the  gleaming  arms 
And  bright  young  hero-face  of  him  who  once 
Had  been  most  welcome  there !  —  and  worst  of  all 

p  i  s  o. 

It  is  enough !     The  gift  of  prophecy 
Is  on  thee,  maid !     A  power  that  is  not  thine 
Looks  out  from  that  dilated,  awful  form  — 
Those  eyes  deep  flashing  with  unearthly  light  — 
And  stills  my  soul.  —  My  Paulus  must  not  die! 
And  yet  —  to  give  up  thus  the  boon! 


MRS.  SWIFT 

Is  a  Philadelphia!!  by  birth ;  the  daughter  of  Mr.  John  Lorrain,  a  mer 
chant  of  that  city.  She  now  resides  in  Easton,  Pennsylvania,  where, 
for  many  years  past,  she  has  been  confined  to  one  house,  almost  to  one 
room,  by  the  illness  of  her  husband.  Her  poems  frequently  appear  in 
Neal's  Saturday  Gazette;  but  they  are  written  less  for  the  public  than 
for  a  circle  of  warmly-attached  friends.  A  vein  of  tenderness  runs 
through  them  all. 

S  TAN  Z  A  S. 

"  Friends  who  by  practice  of  some  envious  skill 
Were  torn  apart,  a  wide  wound,  mind  from  mind, 
She  did  unite  again  with  visions  dear 
Of  fond  affection,  and  of  truth  sincere." 

SHELLEY. 

NOT  on  this  earth,  beloved,  shall  we  meet; 
Not  in  this  weary  world  of  sighs  and  tears, 
Where  life  is  meted  out  by  days  and  years, 
Shall  we  again  our  plighted  faith  repeat; 

But  in  some  mansion  blest, 

Where  happy  spirits  rest, 

Some  star  perchance  in  space,  whose  far-off  light 
Gleam'd  on  thy  upturned  brow,  when  first  you  swore 
To  love  me  always,  love  me  evermore, 
Passion's  bright  dawn,  that  set  in  darkest  night. 

In  loneliness  and  silence  oft  I  gaze 
Upon  the  midnight  glories  of  the  skies, 
When  world  on  world  man's  feeble  sense  defies ; 
Till  overwhelm'd  by  the  refulgent  blaze 
16  (181) 


182  MRS.     SWIFT. 

Of  Deity  reveal'd,  my  soul  is  still'd, 

And  with  its  immortality  is  fill'd. 

Ah!  then  for  thee,  in  deep  but  wordless  prayer, 

My  spirit,  as  if  borne  on  angel-wings, 

Pleads  for  thee  with  the  mighty  King  of  kings, 

To  guide  and  guard  thee  safe  through  every  snare. 

For  both,  the  sorrow  that  makes  desolate, 
Hath  brimm'd  a  cup  whose  anguish  and  dismay 
Withered  the  spring-buds  of  life's  early  day; 
Dreamers  upon  the  brink  of  adverse  fate, 
With  childlike  trust  its  stormy  billows  greeting, 
At  morn's  farewell,  and  evening's  blessed  meeting; 
Love  threw  his  rainbow  on  the  coming  cloud, 
And  Faith,  the  angel  of  this  world  of  tears, 
Pointed  with  radiant  brow  to  future  years. 
Alas!  for  us  the  Future  wove  Love's  shroud! 


TO     THE     NIGHT-BLOOMING     CEREUS. 
(WRITTEN     AT    MIDNIGHT.) 

Oh,  glorious  flower! 

As  thus  at  midnight  hour 
With  eager  gaze  I  watch  thy  full  revealing, 

The  spirit  of  the  past 

Is  o'er  my  senses  cast, 
In  the  rich  incense  from  thy  petals  stealing. 

Flower  of  a  century, 

The  dead  have  gazed  on  thee; 
Hast  thou  no  message  from  the  olden  time  ? 

Where  are  the  living  eyes, 

That  look'd  in  glad  surprise, 
When  last  thy  blossoms  open'd  in  their  prime? 


MRS.     SWIFT 


183 


I  see  a  multitude. 

The  gentle  and  the  rude, 
The  gay,  the  sad,  the  young,  the  weary-hearted, 

They  stand  before  me  now, 

Each  with  an  upturned  brow, 
O  tell  me,  when,  and  where,  have  they  departed  ? 

Thou  answerest  with  death! 

E'en  as  I  speak,  his  breath 
Is  bowing  thy  bright  head  with  swift  decay; 

And  when  again  ye  bloom, 

A  tenant  of  the  tomb 
Like  them,  sweet  flower,  I  shall  have  pass'd  away ! 

ME  MOR  Y. 

'TWAS  but  a  word,  a  single  word 

A  stranger's  lip  exprest, 
And  yet  my  spirit's  depths  were  stirr'd 

With  feelings  long  represt. 

Unbidden  tear-drops  dimm'd  my  eyes, 
My  lip  still  wore  a  smile; 

0  how  the  heart  can  grief  disguise, 
And  learn  deception's  wile. 

Thoughts,  rushing  thoughts,  came  wild  and  fast, 
The  present,  it  was  not, 

1  only  saw  the  long  — long  past, 
How  could  it  be  forgot? 

Young  voices  murmur'd  in  mine  ear, 

With  radiant  mirth  and  glee, 
But  1,  alas!    could  only  hear 

The  heart  that  spoke  of  thee. 


184 


MRS.     SWIFT. 

Again  that  hand  was  clasp'd  in  mine, 
Once  more  thou  wert  mine  own, 

And  'neath  the  crescent  moon's  pale  shine, 
On  the  hill- side,  alone, 

We  wander'd  forth,  too  blest  to  be 

Creatures  of  earth  and  care ; 
A  rude  voice  broke  the  reverie, 

The  vision  it  was  —  air ! 


A     CHRISTMAS     CAROL. 

(ADDRESSED   TO   MRS.   E.   F.    ELLET.) 

SUMMER  has  gone  with  its  bloom  and  its  fountains, 
Hush'd  is  the  music  from  valley  and  hill; 

The  frost-king  now  reigns  on  the  snow-cover'd  mountains, 
And  ice-fetters  prison  the  river  and  rill. 

But,  Lady-bird,  still  thy  sweet  strains  are  awaking 
The  sunshine  that  dwelt  in  the  long-perish'd  bowers, 

And  the  soft-wooing  zephyrs  are  playfully  shaking 
The  rich  gushing  perfume  from  many-hued  flowers. 

Enchanted   we  turn  from  the  cold  and  the  real, 
To  wander  with  thee  in  thy  fancy's  rich  dream  ; 

And  in  the  far  land  of  the  Poet's  ideal, 

To  watch  the  bright  sparkle  of  Helicon's  stream. 

What  matters  it,  if  on  the  face  of  creation, 

The  snow-drift  lies  deep,  and  the  stormy  winds  shriek, 
Undisturbed  by  the  dreary  and  wide  desolation, 

We  shut  out  its  darkness,  thy  pages  to  seek. 

But  May  will  return,  with  her  garland  of  roses, 
The  woods  be  all  vocal  with  carol  and  lay; 

The  forget-me-not  bank,  where  the  wild  bee  reposes, 
Will  twine  with  star-flowers  each  delicate  spray. 


MRS.     E.     C.     KINNEY.  185 

From  earth,  air,  and  water,  sweet  sounds  shall  come  stealing, 
And  in  one  joyous  pa3an  ascend  to  the  skies, 

And  nature  —  in  leaf,  bud  and  blossom  —  revealing 
Her  mystical  workmanship,  gladden  our  eyes. 

Then,  dearest  one,  come  to  our  Eden ;  no  pinion 

That  flies  by  our  groves  shall  be  welcome  as  thine ; 

All  true  hearts  shall  bow  to  thy  gentle  dominion, 

And  worshippers  throng1  to  thy  laurel-wreathed  shrine. 

Now  to  her  who  has  poured  forth  her  mind's  choicest  treasure, 
To  cheer  the  dark  season  of  torpor  and  care, 

From  the  type  of  herself,  in  a  full  crystal  measure, 

We  will  toast  u  our  sweet  Ellet,  —  the  joyous,  and  fair!" 


MRS.  E.  C.  KINNEY. 

MRS.  KINNEY,  whose  maiden  name  was  Dodge,  was  born  and  educated 
in  the  city  of  New  York,  where  her  father  was  for  many  years  engaged 
in  mercantile  pursuits.  The  love  of  nature  was  always  one  of  her 
strongest  characteristics,  and  on  removing  to  her  father's  country  home 
near  Plainfield,  N.  J.,  this  poetic  feeling  began  to  find  utterance  in 
verse. 

Her  first  productions  appeared  in  the  Knickerbocker,  under  the  name 
of  Stedman,  but  for  a  number  of  years  she  has  been  an  occasional  con 
tributor  to  Graham's  Magazine,  and  other  periodicals.  In  1841,  she 
was  married  to  Mr.  William  B.  Kinney,  the  talented  editor  of  the 
Newark  Daily  Advertiser,  and  has  resided  at  Newark  ever  since. 
There  is  much  genuine  feeling,  a  delicate  perception  of  the  beautiful, 
and  an  honest  love  for  the  simple  and  true,  in  her  effusions,  which 
cannot  fail  to  please. 
16* 


186  MRS.      E.     C.     KINNEY. 


THE      QUAKERESS      BRIDE. 

OH  !  not  in  the  halls  of  the  noble  and  proud, 
Where  Fashion  assembles  her  glittering  crowd, 
Where  all  is  in  beauty  and  splendour  arrayed, 
Were  the  nuptials  performed  of  the  meek  Quaker  maid. 

Nor  yet  in  the  temple    those  rites  which  she  took, 
By  the  altar,  the  mitre-crowned  bishop,  and  book; 
Where  oft  in  her  jewels  doth  stand  the  fair  bride, 
To  whisper  those  vows  which  through  life  shall  abide. 

The  building  was  humble,  yet  sacred  to  ONE 
Who  heeds  the  deep  worship  that  utters  no  tone ; 
Whose  presence  is  not  to  the  temple  confined, 
But  dwells  with  the  contrite  and  lowly  of  mind. 

'T  was  there,  all  unveiled,  save  by  modesty,  stood 
The  Quakeress  bride,  in  her  pure  satin  hood ; 
Her  charms  unadorned  by  the  garland  or  ^em, 
Yet  fair  as  the  lily  just  plucked  from  its  stem. 

A  tear  glistened  bright  in  her  dark  shaded  eye, 
And  her  bosom  half-uttered  a  tremulous  sigh, 
As  the  hand  she  had  pledged   was  confidingly  given, 
And  the  low  murmured  accents  recorded  in  heaven. 

I've  been  at  the  bridal  where  wealth  spread  the  board, 
Where  the  sparkling  red  wine  in  rich  goblets  was  poured, 
Where  the  priest  in  his  surplice  from  ritual  read, 
And  the  solemn  response  was  impressively  said. 

I've  seen  the  fond  sire  in  his  thin  locks  of  gray, 
Give  the  pride  of  his  heart  to  the  bridegroom  away, 
While  he  brushed  the  big  tear  from  his  deep-furrowed  cheek, 
And  bowed  the  assent  which  his  lips  might  not  speak ; 


MRS.     E.     C.     KINNEY.  187 

But  in  all  the  array  of  the  costlier  scene, 

Naught  seemed  to  my  eye  so  sincere  in  its  mien, 

No  language  so  fully  the  heart  to  resign, 

As  the  Quakeress  bride's  —  "UNTIL  DEATH  i  AM  THINE." 


FADING      AUTUMN. 

TH'  autumnal  glories  all  have  passed  away! 

The  forest-leaves  no  more  in  hectic  red 
Give  glowing  tokens  of  their  brief  decay. 

But  scattered  lie,  or  rustle  at  the  tread, 

Like  whispered  warnings  from  the  mouldering  dead; 
The  naked  trees  stretch  out  their  arms  all  day, 

And  each  bald  hill-top  lifts  its  reverend  head 
As  if  for  some  new  covering  to  pray. 

Come,  WINTER,  then,  and  spread  thy  robe  of  white 
Above  the  desolation  of  this  scene  ; 

And  when  the  sun  with  gems  shall  make  it  bright, 
Or,  when  its  snowy  folds  by  midnight's  queen 

Are  silvered  o'er  with  a  serener  light, 
We'll  cease  to  sigh  for  summer's  living  green. 


A      WINTER      NIGHT. 

How  calm,  how  solemn,  how  sublime  the  scene! 
The  moon  in  full-orbed  glory  sails  above, 
And  stars  in  myriads  around  her  move, 

Each  looking  down  with  watchful  eye  serene 
On  earth,  which,  in  a  snowy  shroud  arrayed, 
And  still,  as  if  in  death's  embrace  'twere  laid, 

Saddens  the  spirit  with  its  corpse-like  mien : 

Yet  doth  it  charm  the  eye  —  its  gaze  still  hold; 
Just  as  the  face  of  one  we  loved,  when  cold 

And  pale    and  lovely  e'en  in  death    'tis  seen, 


188 


MRS.     E.     C.     KINNEY. 


Will  fix  the  mourner's  eye,  tho'  trembling  fears 
Fill  all  his  heart,  and  thickly  fall  his  tears: 
O,  I  could  watch  till  morn  should  change  the  sight, 
This  cold,  this  beautiful,  this  mournful  Winter  night! 


C  U  L  TI  V  A  T  I  ON. 


WEEDS  grow  unasked,  and  even  some  sweet  flowers 
Spontaneous  give  their  fragrance  to  the  air, 
And  bloom  on  hills,  in  vales,  and  everywhere  — 

As  shines  the  sun,  or  fall  the  summer  showers  — 
But  wither  while  our  lips  pronounce  them  fair! 
Flowers  of  more  worth  repay  alone  the  care, 

The  nurture,  and  the  hopes  of  watchful  hours  ; 

While  plants  most  cultured  have  most  lasting  powers. 
So,  flowers  of  Genius  that  will  longest  live 

Spring  not  in  Mind's  uncultivated  soil, 

But  are  the  birth  of  time,  and  mental  toil, 

And  all  the  culture  Learning's  hand  can  give  : 

Fancies,  like  wild   flowers,  in  a  night  may  grow; 

But  thoughts  are  plants  whose  stately  growth  is  slow. 


ENCOURAGEMENT. 

WHE.V  first  peeps  out  from  earth  the  modest  vine, 

Asking  but  little  space  to  live  and  grow, 
How  easily  some  step,  without  design, 

May  crush  the  being  from  a  thing  so  low! 

But  let  the  hand  that  doth  delight  to  show 
Support  to  feebleness,  the  tendril  twine 

Around  some  lattice-work,  and  'twill  bestow 
Its  thanks  in  fragrance,  and  with  blossoms  shine. 

And  thus,  when  Genius  first  puts  forth  its  shoot 
So  timid  that  it  scarce  dare  ask  to  live  — 


MRS.     E.     C.     KINNEY.  18D 


The  tender  germ,  if  trodden  under  foot, 
Shrinks  back  again  to  its  undying  root; 
While  kindly  training  bids  it  upward  strive, 
And  to  the  future  flowers  immortal  give. 


THE     SPIRIT     OF     SONG. 

ETERNAL  Fame!  thy  great  rewards, 

Throughout  all  time,  shall  be 
The  right  of  those  old  master-bards 

Of  Greece  and  Italy ; 
And  of  fair  Albion's  favoured  isle, 
Where  Poesy's  celestial  smile 

Hath  shone  for  ages,  gilding  bright 
Her  rocky  cliffs  and  ancient  towers, 
And  cheering  this  new  world  of  ours 

With  a  reflected  light. 

Yet,  though  there  be  no  path  untrod 

By  that  immortal  race — 
Who  walked  with  Nature  as  with  God, 

And  saw  her  face  to  face — 
No  living  truth  by  them  unsung — 
No  thought  that  hath  not  found  a  tongue 

In  some  strong  lyre  of  olden  time; 
Must  every  tuneful  lute  be  still — 
That  may  not  give  a  world  the  thrill 

Of  their  great  harp  sublime  ? 

Oh,  not  while  beating  hearts  rejoice 

In  Music's  simplest  tone, 
And  hear  in  Nature's  every  voice 

An  echo  to  their  own ! 
Not  till  these  scorn  the  little  rill 
That  runs  rejoicing  down  the  hill, 


190  MRS     E.     C.     KINNEY. 

Or  the  soft  melancholy  glide 
Of  some  deep  stream  through  glen  and  glade, 
Because  'tis  not  the  thunder  made 

By  ocean's  heaving  tide ! 


The  hallowed  lilies  of  the  field 

In  glory  are  arrayed, 
And  timid,  blue-eyed  violets  yield 

Their  fragrance  to  the  shade; 
Nor  do  the  way-side  flowers  conceal 
Those  modest  charms  that  sometimes  steal 

Upon  the  weary  traveller's  eyes 
Like  angels,  spreading  for  his  feet 
A  carpet  filled  with  odours  sweet, 

And  decked  with  heavenly  dyes. 

Thus  let  the  affluent  Soul  of  Song — 

That  all  with  flowers  adorns — 
Strew  life's  uneven  path  along, 

And  hide  its  thousand  thorns : 
Oh,  many  a  sad  and  weary  heart, 
That  treads  a  noiseless  way  apart, 

Has  blessed  the  humble  poet's  name, 
For  fellowship  refined  and  free, 
In  rncek   wild-flowers  of  poesy, 

That  asked  no  higher  fame! 

And  pleasant  as  the  water-fall 

To  one  by  deserts  bound — 
Making  the  air  all  musical 

With  cool,  inviting  sound — 
Is  oft  some  unpretending  strain 
Of  rural  song,  to  him  whose  brain 

Is  fevered  in  the  sordid  strife 


MRS.     E.     C.     KINNEY.  191 

That  Avarice  breeds  'twixt  man  and  man, 
While  moving  on  in  caravan 
Across  the  sands  of  Life. 

Yet  not  for  these  alone  he  sings ; 

The  poet's  breast  is  stirred 
As  by  the  spirit  that  takes  wings 

And  carols  in  the  bird! 
He  thinks  not  of  a  future  name, 
Nor  whence  his  inspiration  came, 

Nor  whither  goes  his  warbled  song; 
As  Joy  itself  delights  in  joy — 
His  soul  finds  life  in  its  employ, 

And  grows  by  utterance  strong. 


MOUNT     HOPE     CEMETERY,     ROCHESTER. 

COME  hither,  ye  who  fear  the  grave,  and  call  it  lone  and  drear, 
Who  deem  the  burial-place  a  spot  to  waken  grief  and  fear; 
Oh !  come  and  climb  with  me  this  mount  where  sleep  the  silent 

dead, 
And  through  these  winding  gravel-walks  with  noiseless  footsteps 

tread. 

Stoop  down   and   pluck    the   fragrant   bud,  just    opening   fresh 

above 
The  peaceful  bed  where  slumbers  one  who  died  in  youth  and 

love ; 

Smell  the  pure  air,  so  redolent  with  breath  of  summer  flowers, 
And  take  this  sprig  of  evergreen,  a  pledge  for  future  hours. 

See  yonder  river  sparkling  through  the  foliage  of  the  grove, 
How  gracefully  its  course  doth  bend  —  how  still  its  waters  move! 
Sit  'neath  the  branches  of  this  tree  which  spread  their  grateful 

shade 
To  screen  a  spot  for  musing  thought,  or  holy  converse  made. 


192  MRS.     E.     C.     KINXEY. 

Look  round  this  garden  of  the  dead,  where  creep  green  myrtle 
vines. 

Where  box  surrounds  the  sleeper's  home,  and  scented  sweet- 
brier  twines; 

Where  lowly  violets  ope  to  heaven  their  tiny  eyes  of  blue, 

Fill'd  oft  at  morn  with  glittering  tears,  the  drops  of  early  dew. 

And  now,  bend   upward   still  your   steps  to   gain    the   highest 

peak, 

And  let  your  eyes  the  view  beneath,  and  distant  prospect  seek ; 
O,  beautiful !  thrice  beautiful !  there,  blended  hill  and  dale, 
And  here,  the  lofty  mansion  with  the  cottage  of  the  vale. 

The  city  spires,  which  look  to  Heaven,  in  whose  high  cause 

they  stand 
As  guides  to  point  the   pilgrim's  eye  toward  the  far  promised 

land  ; 

The  distant  villages  that  speck  with  white  the  wavy  green, 
And  farther  still,  the  deep  blue  lake,  with  many  a  sail,  is  seen. 

Descend  again,  and  pause  beside  this  vine-encircled  tomb ; 
And  tell  me,  is  there  aught  around  to  fill  the  mind  with  gloom  ? 
List  to  the  feather'd  songsters'  notes  that  warble  from  the  trees, 
And  hear  the  music  soft  that  steals  upon  the  whispering  breeze ! 

Oh,  say,  do  not  fair  Nature's  tones  awake  the    soul  to  bliss  ? 
And  does  not  thought  ascend  to  heaven,  from  such  a  spot  as 

this? 
And    even   the    grave,  does    not   its  voice,  amid    such    flowery 

ground, 
Say  to  the  weary  sons  of  earth,  "  Here  sweet  repose  is  found  ?" 

MOUNT  HOPE  !  thy  consecrated  walks  I  never  more  may  tread, 
And  learn  to  die  by  conning  here  the  lessons  of  the  dead; 
Yet  sweet  't  would  be  to  "  rest  my  flesh  in  hope  "  beneath  thy 

sod, 
Till  the  last  trump  should  bid  it  rise,  to  see  a  FATHER,  GOD  ! 


MARGUERITE  ST.  LEON  LOUD. 

MRS.  LOUD,  formerly  Miss  Barstovv,  was  born  in  Bradford  County, 
Pennsylvania;  and  passed  the  early  part  of  her  life  in  the  beautiful 
retirement  of  her  native  home,  enjoying  unrestrained  intercourse  with 
the  wildest  scenes  of  wood  and  valley  that  are  to  be  found  among  the 
windingsof  the  Susquehannah.  Although  when  a  child  she  committed 
whole  volumes  of  poetry  to  memory,  and  studied  with  fond  devotion 
the  best  poets,  (as  well  as  nature,  one  of  the  best  teachers  a  poet  can 
have,)  it  was  not  until  the  time  of  her  marriage  in  1824,  that  her  own 
talent  began  to  develope  itself.  She  is  now  quite  an  accomplished 
writer,  and  contributes  to  various  magazines  and  daily  journals;  her 
poems  often  possess  much  melody  of  language,  graceful  thought,  and 
tender  feeling. 

THE     DESERTED     HOMESTEAD. 

THERE  is  a  lonely  homestead 

In  a  green  and  quiet  vale, 
With  its  tall  trees  sighing  mournfully 

To  every  passing  gale  ; 
There  are  many  mansions  round  it, 

In  the  sunlight  gleaming  fair  ; 
But  moss-grown  is  that  ancient  roof, 

Its  walls  are  grey  and  bare. 

Where  once  glad  voices  sounded 

Of  children  in  their  mirth, 
No  whisper  breaks  the  solitude 

By  that  deserted  hearth. 
The  swallow  from  her  dwelling 

In  the  low  eaves,  hath  flown  ; 
And  all  night  long,  the  whip-poor-will 

Sings  by  the  threshold  stone. 
17  N  (193) 


194  MARGUERITE     ST.     LEON     LOUD. 

No  hand  above  the  window 

Ties  up  the  trailing  vines; 
And  through  the  broken  casement-panes 

The  moon  at  midnight  shines. 
And  many  a  solemn  shadow 

Seems  starting  from  the  gloom  ; 
Like  forms  of  long  departed  ones 

Peopling  that  dim  old  room. 

No  furrow  for  the  harvest 

Is  drawn  upon  the  plain; 
And  in  the  pastures  green  and  fair, 

No  herds  or  flocks  remain. 
Why  is  that  beauteous  homestead 

Thus  standing  bare  and  lone? 
While  all  the  worshipp'd  household  gods 

In  dust  lie  overthrown. 

And  where  are  they  whose  voices 

Rang  out  o'er  hill  and  dale  ? 
Gone. — and  their  mournful  history 

Is  but  an  oft-told  tale. 
There  smiles  no  lovelier  valley 

Beneath  the  summer  sun, 
Yet  they  who  dwelt  together  there, 

Departed  one  by  one. 

Some  to  the  quiet  churchyard, 

And  some  beyond  the  sea; 
To  meet  no  more,  as  once  they  met, 

Beneath  that  old  roof-tree. 
Like  forest-birds  forsaking 

Their  sheltering  native  nest, 
The  young  —  to  life's  wild  scenes  went  forth, 

The  aged  —  to  their  rest. 


J 


MARGUERITE     ST.     LEON     LOUD.  195 

Fame  and  ambition  lured  them, 

From  that  green  vale  to  roam, 
But  as  their  dazzling  dreams  depart, 

Regretful  memories  come 
Of  the  valley,  and  the  homestead, 

Of  their  childhood  pure  and  free ; 
Till  each  world-weary  spirit  pines, 

That  spot  once  more  to  see. 

Oh !   blest  are  they  who  linger 

'Mid  old  familiar  things, 
Where  every  object  o'er  the  heart 

A  hallow'd  influence  flings. 
Though  won  are  wealth  and  honours, — 

Though  reach'd  fame's  lofty  dome, — 
There  are  no  joys  like  those  which  dwell 

Within  our  childhood's  home. 


"JESUS    WEPT." 

John  xi.  35. 

DRAW  near,  ye  weary,  bow'd,  and  broken-hearted, 
Ye  onward  trav'lers  to  a  peaceful  bourne ; 

Ye,  from  whose  path  the  light  hath  all  departed, 
Ye,  who  are  left  in  solitude  to  mourn ; 

Though  o'er  your  spirits  hath  the  storm-cloud  swept, 

Sacred  are  sorrow's  tears,  since  "  Jesus  wept." 

The  bright  and  spotless  Heir  of  endless  glory, 
Wept  o'er  the  woes  of  those  He  came  to  save; 

And  angels  wondered  when  they  heard  the  story, 
That  He  who  conquered  death,  wept  o'er  the  grave; 

For  'twas  not  when  his  lonely  watch  He  kept 

In  dark  Gethsemane,  that  "  Jesus  wept." 


196  MARGUERITE    ST.     LEON     LOUD. 

But  with  the  friends  He  loved  whose  hope  had  perished, 
The  Saviour  stood,  while  through  his  bosom  rush'd 

A  tide  of  sympathy  for  those  He  cherished, 

And  from  his  eyes  the  burning  tear-drops  gushed, 

And  bending  o'er  the  tomb  where  Lazarus  slept, 

In  agony  of  spirit,  "Jesus  wept." 

Lo!  Jesus'  power  the  sleep  of  death  hath  broken, 
And  wiped  the  tear  from  sorrow's  drooping  eye ! 

Look  up,  ye  mourners,  hear  what  he  hath  spoken, 
"  He  that  believes  on  me  shall  never  die." 

Through  faith  and  love  your  spirits  shall  be  kept ; 

Hope  brighter  grew  on  earth  when  "Jesus  wept." 

PRAYER  FOR  AN  ABSENT  HUSBAND. 

FATHER  in  Heaven ! 
Behold,  he  whom  I  love  is  daily  treading 

The  path  of  life  in  heaviness  of  soul. 
With  the  thick  darkness  now  around  him  spreading 

He  long  hath  striven  — 
Oh,  Thou  most  kind  !  break  not  the  golden  bowl. 

Father  in  Heaven  ! 
Thou  who  so  oft  hast  healed  the  broken-hearted, 

And  raised  the  weary  spirit  bowed  with  care, 
Let  him  not  say  his  joy  hath  all  departed, 

Lest  he  be  driven 
Down  to  the  deep  abyss  of  dark  despair. 

Father  in  Heaven ! 
Oh,  grant  to  his  most  cherished  hopes  a  blessing, — 

Let  peace  and  rest  descend  upon  his  head, 
That  his  torn  heart,  Thy  holy  love  possessing, 

May  not  be  riven, — 
Let  guardian  angels  watch  his  lonely  bed. 


MARGUERITE     ST.     LEON     LOUD.  197 

Father  in  Heaven ! 
Oil,  may  his  heart  be  stayed  on  Thee  !  each  feeling 

Still  lifted  up  in  gratitude  and  love ; 
And  may  that  faith  the  joys  of  heaven  revealing 

To  him  be  given, 
Till  he  shall  praise  Thy  name  in  realms  above. 


THE     AGED. 

I  LOVE  the  aged;  —  every  silver  hair 

On  their  time-honoured  brows,  speaks  to  my  heart 
In  language  of  the  past;  each  furrow  there, 

In  all  my  best  affections  claims  a  part; 
Next  to  our  God  and  Scripture's  holy  page, 
Is  deepest  rev'rence  due  to  virtuous  age. 

The  aged  Christian  stands  upon  the  shore 

Of  Time,  a  storehouse  of  experience, 
Fill'd  with  the  treasures  of  rich  heav'nly  lore; 

I  love  to  sit  and  hear  him  draw  from  thence 
Sweet  recollections  of  his  journey  past, 
A  journey  crowned  with  blessings  to  the  last. 

Lovely  the  aged !  when  like  shocks  of  corn, 
Full  ripe  and  ready  for  the  reaper's  hand, 

Which  garners  for  the  resurrection  morn 

The  bodies  of  the  just,  —  in  hope  they  stand. 

And  dead  must  be  the  heart,  the  bosom  cold, 

Which  warms  not  with  affection  for  the  old. 


17* 


LUELLA  J.  CASE. 

THE  writings  of  this  lady,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  have  chiefly 
appeared  in  The  Rose  of  Sharon,  a  religious  annual,  and  The  Flower 
Vase,  a  small  volume  of  selected  poetry;  —  both  of  which  were  edited 
by  her  friend,  the  late  Mrs.  Edgarton  Mayo.  The  extracts  we  give, 
show  an  easy  and  earnest  mode  of  expression,  and  a  cheerful  heart, 
fitted  by  wisdom  and  love  to  give  useful  advice  in  a  poetical  form.  She 
is  a  daughter  of  the  late  Hon.  Levi  Bartlett,  of  Kingston,  N.  H.,  where 
she  was  born.  Since  her  marriage  she  has  lived  at  Portland,  Maine, 
and  Cincinnati,  Ohio ;  she  now  resides  at  the  former  place. 


ENERGY      IN      ADVERSITY. 

ONWARD  !     Hath  earth's  ceaseless  change 

Trampled  on  thy  heart? 
Faint  not,  for  that  restless  range 

Soon  will  heal  the  smart. 
Trust  the  future;  time  will  prove 
Earth  hath  stronger,  truer  love. 

Bless  thy  God,  the  heart  is  not 

An  abandoned  urn, 
Where,  all  lonely  and  forgot, 

Dust  and  ashes  mourn ; 
Bless  Him,  that  his  mercy  brings 
Joy  from  out  its  withered  things. 

Onward,  for  the  truths  of  God ! 

Onward,  for  the  right! 
Firmly  let  the  field  be  trod, 

In  life's  coining  fight; 
Heaven's  own  hand  will  lead  thee  on, 
Guard  thee  till  thy  task  is  done! 

(198) 


LUELLAJ.CASE.  ^  99 

Then  will  brighter,  sweeter  flowers 

Blossom  round  thy  way, 
Than  e'er  sprung  in  Hope's  glad  bowers, 

In  thine  early  day ; 
And  the  rolling  years  shall  bring 
Strength  and  healing  on  their  wing. 


CHARITY. 

SPEAK  kindly,  oh  speak  soothingly 

To  him  whose  hopes  are  crossed, 
Whose  blessed  trust  in  human  love 

Was  early,  early  lost; 
For  wearily  —  how  wearily  ! 

Drags  life,  if  love  depart; 
Oh !  let  the  balm  of  gentle  words 

Fall  on  the  smitten  heart! 

Go  gladly,  with  true  sympathy, 

Where  want's  pale  victims  pine, 
And  bid  life's  sweetest  smiles  again 

Along  their  pathway  shine. 
Oh,  heavily  doth  poverty 

Man's  nobler  instincts  bind ; 
Yet  sever  not  that  chain,  to  cast 

A  sadder  on  the  mind. 


THE     UNBIDDEN     GUEST. 

I  COME  !     Ye  have  lighted  your  festal  hall, 

And  music  is  sounding  its  joyous  call, 

And  the  guests  are  gathering  —  the  young  —  the  fair, 

With  the  flower- wreath'd  brow,  and  the  braided  hair. 

I  come,  but  so  noiseless  shall  be  my  way 

Through  the  smiling  crowds  of  the  young  and  gay, 


200 


LUELLA     J.     CASE. 


Not  a  thought  shall  rise  in  a  careless  breast 
Of  me,  the  Unseen,  the  Unbidden  Guest ; 
Not  an  under-lone  on  the  ear  shall  swell, 
Smiting  your  hearts  like  a  funeral  knell. 

I  come !      Let  the  music's  echoing  note 

Still  through  the  air  of  your  ball-room  float, 

Let  the  starry  lamps'  soft  radiance  throw 

On  the  rose-touch'd  cheek,  and  the  brow  of  snow, 

Not  a  freezing  pulse,  not  a  thrill  of  fear, 

Shall  tell  that  the  King  of  the  Grave  is  near; 

Not  a  pallid  face,  not  a  rayless  eye, 

Shall  whisper  of  me  as  I  hurry  by, 

Marking  the  doom'd  I  shall  summon  away 

To  their  low,  dark  cells,  in  the  house  of  clay. 

We  have  met  before!     Ay,  I  wander'd  here 

In  the  festal  hours  of  the  parted  year, 

And  many  a  beautiful  form  has  bow'd 

To  the  sleep  that  dwells  in  the  damp  white  shroud  » 

They  died  when  the  first  spring  blossom  was  seen, 

They  faded  away  when  the  groves  were  green, 

When  the  suns  of  Autumn  were  faint  and  brief, 

On  the  wither'd  grass,  and  the  changing  leaf; 

And  here  there  is  many  a  pulse  shall  fail, 

Ere  the  suns  of  the  passing  year  grow  pale. 

Then  swell   the  proud  strains  of  your  music  high, 

As  the  measured  hours  of  your  life  flit  by ; 

Let  the  foot  of  the  thoughtless  dancer  be 

As  fleet  as  it  will,  it  eludes  not  me! 

I  shall  come  when  life's  morning  ray  is  bright, 

I  shall  come  in  the  hush  of  its  waning  light, 

I  shall  come  when  the  ties  of  earth  cling  fast, 

When  love's  sweet  voice    is  a  voice  of  the  Past! 

To  your  homes,  and  pray; — for  ye  wait  your  doom, 

The  shroud,  the  coffin,  the  lonely  tomb! 


ELIZABETH     BOGART. 

Ye  would  quail,  ye  tremblers,  to  see  me  here ; 
Yet  the  mission  I  hold  is  of  love,  not  fear. 
A  healing  I  bear  to  the  couch  of  pain, 
I  fling  from  the  spirit  its  cumbering  chain, 
And  weary  old  age  to  my  rest  shall  hie 
With  a  smiling  lip,  and  a  grateful  eye. 
When  life,  like  a  sorrowful  mourner,  weeps 
O'er  the  grave  where  its  early  promise  sleeps, 
Oh,  earth  has  no  balm  like  the  cup  I  bring ! 
Why  say  ye  I  come  with  the  dart  and  sting  ? 

My  voice  shall  be  sweet  in  the  maiden's  ear, 

As  the  voice  of  her  lover  whispering  near; 

And  my  footstep  so  soft  by  the  infant's  bed, 

He  will  deem  it  his  mother's  anxious  tread, 

And  his  innocent  eyes  will  gently  close, 

As  I  kiss  from  his  bright  young  lips  the  rose. 

Oh,  the  good  and  the  pure  have  nought  to  fear, 

When  my  voice  in  the  gathering  gloom  they  hear! 

Away  from  the  dance,  ye  revellers  gay, 

Fling  off  the  wreath,  —  to  your  homes,  and  pray. 


ELIZABETH   BOGART. 

Miss  Bogart  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York.  Her  father,  the 
Rev.  David  S.  Bogart,  was  a  graduate  of  Columbia  College,  where  he 
took  the  first  honours  in  his  class,  and  a  clergyman  highly  esteemed 
among  his  contemporaries,  as  a  fine  classical  scholar,  and  an  eloquent 
and  effective  preacher.  To  his  constant  instructions,  Miss  Bog-art  was 
indebted  for  her  education,  and  under  his  encouraging  care,  her  love 
for  literary  pursuits  was  cherished  and  indulged.  She  wrote  for  many 
of  the  periodicals  of  the  day  at  an  early  age,  but  principally  for  the 


202  ELIZABETH     BOGART. 

New  York  Mirror,  under  the  signature  of  Estelle.  Her  poems  have 
never  been  collected  into  a  volume ;  nor  has  she  (being  a  lady  of  inde 
pendent  fortune,)  ever  been  compelled  to  write  by  any  other  motive 
than  her  own  pleasure,  or  better  still,  to  soothe  sorrows  not  her  own. 
Very  often,  we  doubt  not,  the  tribute  of  grateful  love  and  praise  (dearer 
than  fame  to  a  pious  heart)  has  been  gladly  rendered  to  her,  for  the 
gentle  sympathy  of  her  friendly  verses.  One  of  her  poems  lias  been  so 
frequently  re-published,  and  so  much  admired,  that  Miss  Bogart  might 
be  specified  as  the  author  of  He  came  too  late ;  there  is  so  much  nature 
and  simple  dignity  about  this  general  favourite,  that  it  shall  be  the  first 
we  select. 


HE      CAME      TOO      LATE. 

HE  came  too  late!  —  Neglect  had  tried 

Her  constancy  too  long ; 
Her  love  had  yielded  to  her  pride, 

And  the  deep  sense  of  wrong. 
She  scorned  the  offering  of  a  heart 

Which  lingered  on  its  way, 
Till  it  could  no  delight  impart, 

Nor  spread  one  cheering  ray. 

He  came  too  late !  —  At  once  he  felt 

That  all  his  power  was  o'er ! 
Indifference  in  her  calm  smile  dwelt, 

She  thought  of  him  no  more. 
Anger  and  grief  had  passed  away, 

Her  heart  and  thoughts  were  free  ; 
She  met  him  and  her  words  were  gay, 

No  spell  had  memory. 

He  came  too  late!  —  the  subtle  chords 

Of  love  were  all  unbound, 
Not  by  offence  of  spoken  words, 

But  by  the  slights  that  wound. 


ELIZABETH     BOGART.  203 

She  knew  that  life  held  nothing  now 

That  could  the  past  repay, 
Yet  she  disdained  his  tardy  vow, 

And  coldly  turned  away. 

He  came  too  late!  —  Her  countless  dreams 

Of  hope  had  long  since  flown; 
No  charms  dwelt  in  his  chosen  themes, 

Nor  in  his  whispered  tone. 
And  when,  with  word  and  smile,  he  tried 

Affection  still  to  prove, 
She  nerved  her  heart  with  woman's  pride, 

And  spurned  his  fickle  love. 

TO     THE      MEMORY     OF      A     FRIEND     WHO     DIED      ON 
SABBATH      MORNING. 

OH,  it  was  meet,  beloved  friend  ! 

That  on  the  Sabbath  morn, 
Thy  soul  should  wing  its  flight  to  heaven, 

On  angel  pinions  borne. 
And  brightly  broke  that  Sabbath  day 

Upon  thy  raptured  sight, 
In  mansions  of  eternal  bliss, 

And  everlasting  light. 

And  in  that  City  of  the  Blest, 

Where  thou  hast  found  a  home, 
Sorrow  and  sickness  are  unknown, 

And  Death  shall  never  come. 
"And  there  shall  be  no  night,"  nor  need 

Of  sun  or  moon  to  shine ; 
The  glory  of  the  Lord  shall  fill 

The  place  with  rays  divine. 

Why  should  we  weep,  beloved  friend ! 
That  thou  hast  entered  now 


L 


ELIZABETH     BOGART. 

The  gates  of  pearl,    and  hast  received 

The  crown  upon  thy  brow — 
The  glorious  "crown  of  righteousness"  — 

Ere  yet  the  years  drew  near, 
In  which  thy  weary  heart  should  feel 

Thou  hadst  no  pleasure  here. 

Thy  spirit  left  this  dying  world, 

While  Nature's  fading  bloom 
And  falling  leaves,  spoke  mournfully 

Of  sadness  and  the  tomb. 
But  ah,  already  has  the  Spring, 

With  flowers  and  beauty  rife, 
Returned  to  thee  —  and  thou  hast  drunk 

The  crystal  stream  of  life. 

Yet  must  I  weep,  my  much  loved-friend  f 

In  selfish  grief,  for  thee; 
The  haunts  where  we  together  strayed, 

Are  lonely  now  to  me. 
Earth's  bright  and  beauteous  scenes  no  more 

Could  former  joys  impart, 
Without  thy  pleasant  voice  and  smile, 

Companion  of  my  heart! 

Nor  I  alone  shall  mourn  thy  loss  ; 

The  suffering,  sick,  and  poor, 
Will  miss  the  friend  who  never  turned 

Unkindly  from  their  door. 
Oh,  thou  hast  sought  the  bed  of  pain, 

To  comfort  the  distressed; 
And  many  such  will  join  thy  friends, 

To  call  thy  memory  blessed. 

Thy  works  shall  praise  thee,  more  than  words, 
For  feeble  is  the  lyre, 


ELIZABETH     BOGART.  205 

And  cold  the  language  seems  to  flow, 

Though  burning  thoughts  inspire. 
Farewell,  farewell !  —  I  know  that  thou 

Shalt  ne'er  return  to  me; 
My  earthly  pilgrimage  fulh'IPd, 

Oh,  may  I  go  to  thee ! 

THE     COUNTRY     CHURCH. 

IT  was  an  humble  temple ;   and  it  stood 

In  the  enclosure  of  a  quiet  wood. 

The  forest  trees  o'ershadow'd  all  the  place, 

And  mountains  round  it,  added  a  rude  grace, 

To  charm  the  eye,  and  bid  the  thoughts  arise 

Amid  their  towering  summits,  to  the  skies. 

The  valley  lay  below,  half  hid  from  view 

By  clustering  bushes  on  its  bank  that  grew ; 

And  in  its  depths  a  winding  streamlet  stray'd 

Of  crystal  water,  murmuring  through  the  glade  — 

An  emblem  of  that  living  water,  given 

To  quench  the  thirst  of  spirits  bound  for  heaven. 

Sweet  was  the  rural  scene  of  deep  repose, 

And  bright  the  sun  that  o'er  the  Sabbath  rose, 

When  we,  as  strangers,  sought  that  house  of  prayer, 

And  join'd  the  few  who  met  to  worship  there. 

We  cross'd  the  open  door-way,  sure  to  meet 

A  welcome  entrance  and  a  willing  seat, 

Amid  the  scant  and  scatter'd  flock  that  came 

Their  own  familiar  places  there  to  claim. 

Free  access  to  that  dome  was  none  denied; 

Nor  outward  show  of  fashion  or  of  pride, 

Check'd  the  devotion  of  the  solemn  hour, 

Or  took  from    Truth  its  deep,  momentous  power. 

No  studied  eloquence  was  there  displayed, 
Nor  poetry  of  language  lent  its  aid, 
18 


206  ELIZABETH     BOGART. 

But  plain  the  words  which  from  the  preacher  came; 

A  preacher  young,  and  all  unknown  to  fame; 

While  youth  and  age  a  listening  ear  inclined, 

To  learn  the  way  the  pearl  of  price  to  find. 

The  solemn  hymn,  to  ancient  music  set, 

In  many  a  heart  response  of  memory  met. 

To  me,  it  seem'd,  departed  Sabbaths  hung 

Upon  those  notes,  which  gave  the  past  a  tongue 

To  speak  again  in  voices  from  the  dead, 

And  wake  an  echo  from  their  silent  bed. 

Oh !    what  a  power  hath  music  !   how  it  sinks 

Into  the  spirit's  fountain-depths,  and  drinks 

Familiar  draughts  perchance  long  buried  there, 

And  blends  the  scenes  that  were,  with  scenes  that  are. 

All  Nature  seem'd  to  hail  that  Sabbath  morn, 

With  sight  and  sound  religion  to  adorn. 

The  hills  with  verdure  crown'd,  majestic  stood, 

The  water'd  valley,  and  the  vocal  wood, 

Whose  leaves,  stirr'd  by  the  breezes'  viewless  wings, 

Whisper'd  in  worship  of  the  King  of  kings, 

While  birds  in  freedom  chanted  forth  their  lays, 

Untaught,  unwritten,  to  their  Maker's  praise. 

So  calm,  so  beautiful,  that  lonely  spot, 

'Twere  well  that  there  the  world  should  be  forgot; 

And  every  thought  attuned  to  sacred  themes, 

Cast  off  awhile  life's  vain,  distracting  schemes. 

I  love  a  country  church,  where'er  it  be ! 

It  brings  back  happy  memories  to  me. 

It  cancels  years,  and  shadows  pass  away, 

And  forms  beloved  now  mingled  with  the  clay, 

By  Fancy's  touch,  recover  life  and  breath, 

And  1  forget  that  they  are  thine,  O  Death ! 

Still  tenants  of  the  grave ;    to  rise  no  more, 

Till  the  last  trump  shall  sound,  and  time  be  o'er. 


A.  D.  WOODBRIDGE. 

Miss  WOODBRIDGE  is  a  worthy  descendant  of  very  worthy  ancestors; 
three  of  whom  were  so  eminent  for  their  godly  and  charitable  lives,  as 
to  be  chosen  by  Mrs.  Sigourney,  in  her  Biography  of  Pious  Women,  to 
set  forth  the  brightest  examples  of  religious  excellence.  They  lived 
at  Stockbridge,  Massachusetts ;  and  the  subject  of  this  brief  notice, 
who  was  born  in  Penobscot  County,  Me.,  spent  the  happiest  period  of 
her  childhood  and  youth  among  the  hills  of  Berkshire,  "  the  Switzerland 
of  America."  Her  first  poetical  efforts  were  published  in  the  village 
paper,  and  in  Mrs.  Child's  Juvenile  Miscellany.  Afterwards  she  con 
tributed  to  the  New  York  Mirror,  and  wrote  many  tales  and  poems  for 
the  annuals,  which  were  then  in  their  palmiest  days.  In  May  1836,  she 
became  a  teacher  in  the  Albany  Female  Academy  ;  and  in  ten  years 
from  that  time,  removed  to  a  similar  institution  newly  established  in 
Brooklyn,  where  she  still  pursues  with  mingled  gentleness  and  energy, 
her  useful  and  honourable,  though  often  wearisome,  vocation.  There 
is  much  simplicity  and  religious  hopefulness  about  her  effusions,  which 
are  mostly  inspired  by  the  feelings  of  friendship  and  sympathy. 


LIFE'S     LIGHT     AND     SHADE. 

How  strangely  in  this  life  of  ours. 

Light  falls  upon  the  darkest  shade  ! 
How  soon  the  thorn  is  hid  by  flowers! 

How  Hope,  sweet  spirit,  comes  to  aid 
The  heart  oppressed  by  care  and  pain ; 

She  whispers  "all  shall  yet  be  well!" 
We  listen  to  her  magic  strain, 

And  yield  the  spirit  to  her  spell. 

How  oft,  when  Love  is  like  a  bird 

Whose  weary  wing  droops  o'er  the  sea, 

(207) 


20S  A.     D.     WOODBRIDGE. 

While  not  an  answering  tone  is  heard, 

She  spies  a  verdant  olive  tree ; 
And  soon  within  that  shelt'ring  bower, 

She  pours  her  very  soul  in  song; 
While  other  voices  wake  that  hour, 

Her  gentle  numbers  to  prolong. 

Thus,  when  this  heart  is  sad  and  lone, 

As  memory  wakes  her  dirge-like  hymn, 
When  Hope  on  heavenward  wing  hath  flown, 

And  earth  seems  wrapped  in  shadows  dim  — 
O !  then  a  word,  a  glance,  a  smile, 

A  simple  flower,  or  Childhood's  glee, 
Will  each  sad  thought,  each  care  beguile, 

Till  joy's  bright  fountain  gushes  free. 

To-day  its  waters  gladly  slirr'd, 

For   Peace  was  nigh  —  that  gentle  Dove, 
And  sweet  as  song  of  forest  bird, 

Came  the  low  voice  of   one  I  love; 
And  flowers,  the  smile  of   Heaven,    were  mine, 

They  whisper'd,  "  Wherefore  art  thou  sad  ? 
Of  love,  we  are  the  seal  and  sign, 

We  come  to  make  thy  spirit  glad." 

Thus,  ever,  in  the  steps  of  grief, 

Are  sown  the  precious  seeds  of  joy; 
Each  fount  of  Marah  hath  a  leaf, 

Whose  healing  balm  we  may  employ. 
Then,   'mid  life's  fitful,  fleeting  day, 

Look  up!    the  sky  is  bright  above! 
Kind  voices  cheer   thee  on  thy  way ! 

Faint  spirit !    trust  the  God  of  Love ! 


A.     D.     WOODBRIDGE. 


TO     L  IL  LI  E. 

WHERE  is  the  lily  now  ? 

Lily,  sweet  and  fair! 
Blossoms  it  'neath  forest  bough, 

Shedding  fragrance  there  ? 
Doth  the  zephyr's  softest  kiss 

Touch  its  petals  sweet  ? 
Would  that  I  were  woodland  bough ! 

Or  the  zephyr  fleet ! 

Doth  the  lily  flourish  now? 

Doth  it  lift  its  head, 
Joyfully,  to  meet  the  morn  ? 

Are  the  night-dews  shed 
Lovingly,  on  petals  bright  ? — 

Would  I  were  the  dew  ! 
Or  a  beam  of  matin  light, 

And  1  'd  bless  it  too. 

Lily !    emblem  meet  art  thou 

Of  a  little  child  ! 
Such  as  Jesus  loved  to  bless — - 

Meek,  and  undefiled. 
We  will  trust  her  to  His  care, 

To  His  faithful  breast;  — 
Lillie  dearest!    Lillie  fair! 

There,  with  thee,  we  '11  rest.. 


18 


ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER. 

ELIZABETH  CHANDLER  was  born  at  Centre,  near  Wilmington,  Dela 
ware,  on  the  24th  of  December,  1807.  Her  father  was  a  respectable 
farmer,  who  had  been  educated  liberally,  and  had  studied  medicine;  but 
while  he  resided  in  the  country  devoted  himself  principally  to  agricul 
ture.  Her  mother  (whose  maiden  name  was  Margaret  Evans)  died  when 
she  was  an  infant ;  and  soon  after  this  event,  the  family  removed  to  Phila 
delphia,  where  Elizabeth  was  placed  under  the  care  of  her  grandmother, 
attended  a  school  established  by  the  society  of  Friends,  and  quickly 
evinced  her  fondness  for  literary  pursuits,  and  her  genius  for  poetry. 

Before  she  was  sixteen,  she  had  contributed  many  excellent  articles 
in  prose  and  verse,  to  some  of  the  most  popular  magazines  of  the  day ; 
but  her  retiring  habits,  and  determined  resolution  to  keep  back  her  name 
from  the  public,  prevented  her  talents  from  obtaining  the  notice  they 
deserved.  She  became  a  member  of  an  Anti-Slavery  Society  in  Phila 
delphia,  and  laboured  with  her  pen  very  industriously  in  its  behalf.  In 
the  summer  of  1830,  she  removed  with  an  aunt  and  brother  to  Michigan. 
The  spot  they  chose  for  a  dwelling  was  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Raisin, 
near  the  village  of  Tecumseh.  Elizabeth  gave  it  the  name  of  Hazle- 
bank,  and  enjoyed  herself  much  amidst  its  wild  forest  scenes,  searching 
after  Indian  traditions,  and  gathering  food  for  poetry  and  romance  from 
their  legendary  lore.  Here  she  lived  four  years,  loving  and  beloved; 
and  here  she  died,  most  deeply  regretted,  and  was  buried  under  "her 
own  transplanted  forest-vine,"  in  November,  1834. 

Her  productions  show  much  poetic  fervour,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
are  by  no  moans  wanting  in  correctness,  and  elegance  of  expression. 


THE     BRANDYWINE. 

MY  foot  has  climbM  the  rocky  summit's  height, 
And  in  mute  rapture,  from  its  lofty  brow. 
Mine  eye  is  gazing  round  me  with  delight, 
On  all  of  beautiful,  above,  below  : 


*  A  beautiful  stream,  flowing  near  the  author's  place  of  nativity. 

(210) 

I 

I 


J 


ELIZABETH     MARGARET     CHANDLER.         211 

The  fleecy  smoke-wreath  upward  curling  slow, 
The  silvery  waves  half  hid  with  bowering  green, 
That  far  beneath  in  gentle  murmurs  flow. 
Or  onward  dash  in  foam  and  sparkling  sheen, 
While  rocks  and  forest-boughs  hide  half  the  distant  scene. 

In  sooth,  from  this  bright  wilderness  'tis  sweet 
To  look  through  loop-holes  form'd  by  forest-boughs, 
And  view  the  landscape  far  beneath  the  feet, 
Where  cultivation  all  its  aid  bestows, 
And  o'er  the  scene  an  added  beauty  throws ; 
The  busy  harvest  group,  the  distant  mill, 
The  quiet  cattle  stretch'd  in  calm  repose, 
The  cot,  half  seen  behind  the  sloping  hill, 
All  mingled  in  one  scene  with  most  enchanting  skill. 

The  very  air  that  breathes  around  my  cheek, 
The  summer  fragrance  of  my  native  hills, 
Seems  with  the  voice  of  other  times  to  speak, 
And,  while  it  each  unquiet  feeling  stills, 
My  pensive  soul  with  hallow'd  memories  fills  : 
My  fathers'  hall  is  there  ;    their  feet  have  press'd 
The  flower-gemm'd  margin  of  these  gushing  rills, 
When  lightly  on  the  water's  dimpled  breast, 
Their  own  light  bark  beside  the  frail  canoe  would  rest. 

Oh !   if  there  is  in  beautiful  and  fair, 
A  potency  to  charm,  a  power  to  bless; 
If  bright  blue  skies  and  music-breathing  air, 
And  nature  in  her  every  varied  dress 
Of  peaceful  beauty  and  wild  loveliness, 
Can  shed  across  the  heart  one  sunshine  ray, 
Then  others,  too,  sweet  stream,  with  only  less 
Than  mine  own  joy,  shall  gaze,  and  bear  away 
Some  cherish'd  thought  of  thee  for  many  a  coming  day. 


212       ELIZABETH     MARGARET     CHANDLER. 

But  yet  not  utterly  obscure  thy  banks, 
Nor  all  unknown  to  history's  page  thy  name; 
For  there  wild  war  hath  pour'd  his  battle  ranks, 
And  stamp'd  in  characters  of  blood  and  flame, 
Thine  annals  in  the  chronicles  of  fame. 
The  wave  that  ripples  on,  so  calm  and  still. 
Hath  trembled  at  the  war-cry's  loud  acclaim, 
The  cannon's  voice  hath  roll'd  from  hill  to  hill, 
And  'midst  thy  echoing  vales  the  trump  hath  sounded  shrill. 

My  country's  standard  waved  on  yonder  height, 
Her  red  cross  banner  England  there  display'd, 
And  there  the  German,  who,  for  foreign  fight, 
Had  left  his  own  domestic  hearth,  and  made 
War,  with  its  horrors  and  its  blood,  a  trade, 
Amidst  the  battle  stood;    and  all  the  day, 
The  bursting  bomb,  the  furious  cannonade, 
The  bugle's  martial  notes,  the  musket's  play, 
In  mingled  uproar  wild,  resounded  far  away. 

Thick  clouds  of  smoke  obscured  the  clear  bright  sky, 
And  hung  above  them  like  a  funeral  pall, 
Shrouding  both  friend  and  foe,  so  soon  to  lie 
Like  brethren  slumbering  in  one  father's  hall. 
The  work  of  death  went  on,  and  when  the  fall 
Of  night  came  onward  silently,  and  shed 
A  dreary  hush,  where  late  was  uproar  all, 
How  many  a  brother's  heart  in  anguish  bled 
O'er  cherish'd  ones,  who  there  lay  resting  with  the  dead. 

Unshrouded  and  uncoffin'd  they  were  laid 
Within  the  soldier's  grave,  e'en  where  they  fell; 
At  noon  they  proudly  trod  the  field  — the  spade 
At  night  dug  out  their  resting-place  —  and  well 
And  calmly  did  they  slumber,  though  no  bell 
Peal'd  over  them  its  solemn  music  slow; 
The  night-winds  sung  their  only  dirge,  their  knell 


ELIZABETH     MARGARET     CHANDLER.       213 

Was  but  the  owlet's  boding  cry  of  woe, 
The  flap  of  night-hawk's  wing,  and  murmuring  waters'  flow. 

But  it  is  over  now,  —  the  plough  hath  rased 
All  trace  of  where  war's  wasting  hand  hath  been  j 
No  vestige  of  the  battle  may  be  traced, 
Save  where  the  share,  in  passing  o'er  the  scene, 
Turns  up  some  rusted  ball ;    the  maize  is  green 
On  what  was  once  the  death-bed  of  the  brave; 
The  waters  have  resumed  their  wonted  sheen  ; 
The  wild  bird  sings  in  cadence  with  the  wave, 
And  nought  remains  to  show  the  sleeping  soldier's  grave. 

A  pebble  stone  that  on  the  war-field  lay, 
And  a  wild-rose  that  blossom'd  brightly  there, 
Were  all  the  relics  that  I  bore  away, 
To  tell  that  I  had  trod  the  scene  of  war, 
When  I  had  turn'd  my  footsteps  homeward  far. 
These  may  seem  childish  things  to  some ;    to  me 
They  shall  be  treasured  ones ;    and,  like  the  star 
That  guides  the  sailor  o'er  the  pathless  sea, 
They  shall  lead  back  my  thoughts,  loved  Brandy  wine,  to  thee. 


THE     SOLDIER'S     PRAYER. 

Garden,  in  his  "Anecdotes  of  the  Revolution,"  when  describing  the 
sufferings  of  the  army,  mentions  the  circumstance  of  a  soldier  having 
earnestly  entreated  permission  to  visit  his  family,  which  was  refused, 
on  the  ground  that  the  same  favour  must  be  granted  to  others,  who  could 
not  be  spared  without  weakening  the  army,  whose  strength  was  already 
reduced  by  sickness.  He  acquiesced  in  the  justice  of  the  denial,  but 
added,  that  to  him  refusal  would  be  death.  He  was  a  brave  and  valu 
able  soldier,  and  apparently  in  health  at  the  time; — but  his  words  were 
verified. 

I  CARE  not  for  the  hurried  march  through  August's  burning  noon, 
Nor  for  the  long  cold  ward  at  night,  beneath  the  dewy  moon ; 
I  've  calmly  felt  the  winter's  storms,  o'er  my  unshelter'd  head, 
And  trod  the  snow  with  naked  foot,  till  every  track  was  red ! 


214        ELIZABETH     MARGARET     CHANDLER. 

My  soldier's  fare  is  poor  and  scant  —  'tis  what  my  comrades 

share, 

Yon  heaven  my  only  canopy  —  but  that  I  well  can  bear; 
A  dull  and  feverish  weight  of  pain  is  pressing  on  my  brow, 
And  I  am  faint  with  recent  wounds  —  for  that  I  care  not  now. 

But  oh,  I  long  once  more  to  view  my  childhood's  dwelling- 
place, 

To  clasp  my  mother  to  my  heart  —  to  see  my  father's  face! 

To  list  each  well  remember'd  tone,  to  gaze  on  every  eye 

That  met  my  ear,  or  thrill'd  my  heart,  in  moments  long  gone 
by. 

In  vain  with  long  and  frequent  draught  of  every  wave  I  sip, — 
A  quenchless  and  consuming  thirst  is  ever  on  my  lip ! 
The  very  air  that  fans  my  cheek  no  blessed  coolness  brings, — 
A  burning  heat  or  chilling  damp  is  ever  on  its  wings. 

Oh!  let  me  seek  my  home  once  more  —  for  but  a  little  while — 
But  once  above  my  couch  to  see  my  mother's  gentle  smile ; 
It  haunts  me  in  my  waking  hours  —  'tis  ever  in  my  dreams, 
With  all  the  pleasant  paths  of  home,  rocks,  woods,  and  shaded 
streams. 

There   is   a   fount,  —  I   know  it  well  —  it   springs   beneath   a 

rock, 

Oh,  how  its  coolness  and  its  light,  my  feverish  fancies  mock ! 
I  pine  to  lay  me  by  its  side,  and  bathe  my  lips  and  brow, 
'T  would  give  new  fervour  to  the  heart,  that   beats  so  languid 

now. 

I  may  not  —  I  must  linger  here  —  perchance  it  maybe  just! 
But  well  I  know  this  yearning  soon  will  scorch  my  heart  to 

dust! 

One  breathing  of  my  native  air  had  call'd  me  back  to  life  — 
But  I  must  die  —  must  waste  away  beneath  this  inward  strife. 


ELIZABETH     MARGARET     CHANDLER.       215 


THE     DEVOTED. 

IT  was  a  beautiful  turn  given  by  a  great  lady,  who  being  asked  where 
her  husband  was,  when  he  lay  concealed  for  having  been  deeply  con 
cerned  in  a  conspiracy,  resolutely  answered  that  she  had  hidden  him.  This 
confession  caused  her  to  be  carried  before  the  governor,  who  told  her 
that  nought  but  confessing  where  she  had  hidden  him,  could  save  her 
from  the  torture.  "And  will  that  do?''  said  she.  "  Yes,"  replied  the 
governor,  "I  will  pass  my  word  for  your  safety,  on  that  condition." 
"Then,"  replied  she,  "I  have  hidden  him  in  my  heart,  where  you  may 
find  him." 

STERN  faces  were  around  them  bent,  and  eyes  of  vengeful  ire, 
And  fearful  were  the  words  they  spake  of  torture,  stake,  and  fire  : 
Yet  calmly  in  the  midst  she  stood,  with  eye  undimni'd  and 

clear, 
And  though  her  lip  and  cheek  were  white,  she  wore  no  sign 

of  fear. 

"Where  is  thy  traitor  spouse  ?"  they  said  ;  —  a  half-form'd  smile 

of  scorn, 

That  curl'd  upon  her  haughty  lip,  was  back  for  answer  borne  ;— 
"  Where  is  thy  traitor  spouse  ?"  again,  in  fiercer  notes,  they 

said, 
And  sternly  pointed  to  the  rack,  all  rusted  o'er  with  red ! 

Her    heart   and    pulse    beat    firm    and    free  — but  in  a  crimson 

flood, 
O'er  pallid  lip  and  cheek   and    brow,  rush'd    up    the    burning 

blood ; 

She  spake,  but  proudly  rose  her  tones,  as  when  in  hall  or  bower, 
The  haughtiest  chief  that  round  her  stobd  had  meekly  own'd 

their  power; 

"My  noble  Lord  is  placed   within  a  safe  and  sure  retreat" — 
"  Now  tell  us  where,  thou  lady  bright,  as  thou  wouldst  mercy 
meet, 


216        ELIZABETH     MARGARET     CHANDLER. 

Nor  deem  thy  life  can   purchase   his  — he    cannot  'scape   our 

wrath, 
For  many  a  warrior's  watchful  eye  is  placed  o'er  every  path. 

« But  thou  mayest  win  his  broad  estates  to  grace  thine  infant 

heir, 

And  life  and  honour  to  thyself,  so  thou  his  haunts  declare." 
She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart;  her  eye  flash'd  proud  and 

clear, 
And  firmer  grew  her  haughty  tread;-"  My  lord  is  hidden  here  ! 

"  And  if  ye  seek  to  view  his  form,  ye  first  must  tear  away, 
From    round    his    secret    dwelling-place  these  walls    of  living 
clay !" 

They  quail'd    beneath    her   haughty  glance,  they  silent   turn'd 

aside, 
And  left  her  all  unharm'd  amidst  her  loveliness  and  pride ! 

THE     CHINESE      SON. 

The  following  |ines  were  Sll.,,oste(1   by  rea,lirl{?  a  narrative  of  a  Chi. 

e  youth,  whose  mother  felt  great  alarm   during  the   prevalence  of  a 

imider-storm,  an, I    whose   filial    atlection   always  prompted   him  to  be 

present  with  his   mother  on  such  occasions,  ami  even   after  her  death  to 

visit  and  remain  at  her  -rave,  during  their  continuance. 

I  COME  to  thee,  my  mother!    the  black  sky 

Is  swollen  with   its  thunder,  and  the  air 
Seems  palpable  with  darkness,  save  when  high, 

The  lurid  lightning  streams  a  ruddy  glare 

Across  the  heavens,  rousing  from  their  lair 
The  deep-voiced  thunders!    how  the  mounting  storm 

Strides  o'er  the  firmament !    yet  I  can  dare 
Its  fiercest  terrors,  mother,  that  my  arm 
May  wind  its  shield  of  love  around  thy  sleeping  form. 

What  uproar!    raging  winds,  and  smiting  hail, 

The  lightning's  blaze,  and  deaf'ning  thunder's  crash, 


ELIZABETH     MARGARET     CHANDLER.         217 

Let  loose  at  once  for  havoc  !    I  should  quail 
Before  the  terrors  of  the  forked  flash, 
Did  not  the  thought  of  thee  triumphant  dash 

All  selfish  fears  aside,  and  bid  me  fly 

To  kneel  beside  thy  grave ;    the  rain-drops  plash 

Heavily  round  thee  from  the  rifted  sky ; 

Yet  I  am  here,  fear  not  —  beside  thy  couch  I  lie. 

Thou  canst  not  hear  me —  the  storm  brings  not  now 

One  terror  to  thy  bosom  —  yet  'tis  sweet 
To  call  to  mind  the  smile,  wherewith  thy  brow 

Was  wont  in  by-gone  days  my  step  to  greet, 

When  o'er  the  earth  the  summer  tempest  beat, 
And  the  loosed  thunder  shook  the  heavens  —  but  when 

Was  there  a  look  of  mine  that  did  not  meet 
A  smile  of  love  from  thee  ?  the  world  of  men 
A  friend,  like  thou  hast  been,  will  never  yield  again. 

Oh !    mother,  mother,  how  could  love  like  thine 
Pass  from  the  earth  away !    on  other  eyes, 

The  glances  of  maternal  love  will  shine, 
And  still  on  other  hearts  the  blessing  lies, 
That  made  mine  blissful ;    yet  far  less  they  prize 

That  boon  of  happiness  —  and  in  their  glee, 
Around  their  spirits  gather  many  ties 

Of  joy  and  tenderness  —  but  all  to  me 

That  made  the  earth  seem  bright,  is  sepulchred  with  thee. 

They  sometimes  strive  to  lead  me  to  the  halls 

Where  wine  and  mirth  the  fleeting  moments  wing, 

But  on  my  clouded  spirit  sadness  falls 

More  darkly  then,  than  when  the  cave-glooms  fling 
Their  shadows  round  me,  and  the  night-winds  sing 

Through  the  torn  rocks  their  melancholy  dirge, 
Or  when  as  now  the  echoing  thunder  rings 

O'er  the  wide  heavens,  and  the  mad  gales  urge 

Unto  an  answering  cry,  the  overmastering  surge. 
19 


218  EMMA     C.     EMBURY. 

The  storms  of  nature  pass,  and  soon  no  trace 
Is  left  to  mark  their  ravage  —  but  long  years 

Pass  lingeringly  onward,  nor  efface 

The  deep-cut  channel  of  our  burning  tears, 
Or  aching  scars,  that  wasting  sorrow  sears 

Upon  the  breast:    lo!  even  now,  a  g]eam 

Of  moonlight  through  the  broken  clouds  appears. 

To  bless  the  earth  again.     I  fain  would  dream, 

It  was  a  smile  of  thine,  to  bless  me  with  its  beam. 


EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 

THIS  gifted  lady  was  born  in  New  York,  where  her  father,  Dr. 
Manly,  has  been  practising  as  a  physician  many  years.  She  was  mar 
ried  when  quite  young  to  Mr.  Embury,  a  gentleman  of  wealth  and 
education,  who  himself  possesses  no  small  claim  to  distinction,  for  his 
superior  talents,  and  high  intellectual  attainments.  He  is  considered 
one  of  the  first  mathematicians  in  the  country.  Mrs.  Embury  wrote 
for  the  various  periodicals  at  an  early  age,  under  the  name  of  lanthe ; 
and  in  the  year  1S28,  these  contributions,  with  many  other  pieces,  were 
collected  into  a  volume,  called  Guido  and  other  Poems.  Her  juvenile 
productions,  however,  although  in  their  versification  remarkably  flow 
ing  and  sweet,  are  not  to  be  compared  with  her  after  works,  which  are 
written  with  great  freshness  and  vigour,  and  display  as  much  sound 
sense  as  tender  sentiment. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  years  Mrs.  Embury  became  very  popular  as  a 
prose- writer ;  published  a  work  on  Female  Education;  after  that,  Con 
stance  Latimer,  the  Blind  Girl;  and  several  tales  of  much  beauty,  and 
moral  excellence.  A  little  book,  Love's  Token  Flowers,  appeared  in 
1845,  which,  she  says  in  the  short  preface  prefixed  to  it,  "differs  from 
other  works  of  floral  sentiment,  inasmuch  as  it  is  not  a  compilation,  but 
a  collection  of  original  poems ;"  adding,  "  though  they  are  perhaps  but 
little  worthy  of  appropriation,  yet  they  have  that  value  which  the  simple 


EMMA     C.     EMBURY.  219 

philosophy  of  Touchstone  recognises,  a  poor  thing,  sir,  but  my  own" 
This  modest  little  book  contains  many  of  the  most  exquisite  songs 
that  were  ever  written,  the  pure  melodious  accents  of  music-making 
love;  and  a  few  larger  poems,more  serious,  but  not  less  sweet.  Mrs. 
Embury  has  recently  written  a  prose  work  called  Glimpses  of  Home 
Life,  which  well  sustains  the  reputation  which  has  so  long  been  hers, 
as  one  of  the  most  useful  and  attractive  of  American  authoresses. 

Mrs.  Embury  resides  at  Brooklyn,  where  she  has  lived  ever  since 
her  marriage.  Her  many  home-bred  virtues  and  capabilities,  her  well- 
ordered  household,  and  the  happiness,  harmony,  and  content  which  reign 
there,  prove  a  delightful  contradiction  to  the  vulgar  idea,  that  women 
of  genius  cannot  be  women  of  domestic  worth.  But  it  is  certainly 
true,  as  a  noble  writer  of  great  penetration  (Hannah  More)  affirms, 
that  «*  those  women  who  are  so  puffed  up  with  the  conceit  of  talents, 
as  to  neglect  the  plain  duties  of  life,  will  not  often  be  found  to  be 
women  of  the  best  abilities."  No  employment  of  native  genius,  how 
ever  lofty  and  honourable  in  itself  considered,  no  exertion  after  the 
applause,  the  gratification,  or  even  the  improvement  of  the  public,  can 
absolve  a  wife  and  mother  from  her  highest,  holiest  obligation — to  make 
home  happy. 

"THE    NIGHT    COMETH." 

YE,  who  in  the  field  of  human  life 

Quickening  seeds  of  wisdom  fain  would  sow, 

Pause  not  for  the  angry  tempest's  strife, 

Shrink  not  from  the  noontide's  fervid  glow  — 

Labour  on,  while  yet  the  light  of  day 

Sheds  abroad  its  pure  and  blessed  ray, 

For  the  Night  cometh ! 

Ye,  who  at  man's  mightiest  engine  stand 

Moulding  noble  thought  into  opinion, 
Oh,  stay  not,  for  weariness,  your  hand, 

Till  ye  fix  the  bounds  of  truth's  dominion ; 
Labour  on,  while  yet  the  light  of  day 
Sheds  upon  your  toil  its  blessed  ray, 

For  the  Night  cometh  ! 


I 

L. 


220  EMMA     C.     EMBURY. 

Ye,  to  whom  a  prophet  voice  is  given, 

Stirring  men,  as  by  a  trumpet's  call, 
Utter  forth  the  oracles  of  Heaven  — 

Earth  gives  back  the  echoes  as  they  fall : 
Rouse  the  world's  great  heart,  while  yet  the  day 
Breaks  life's  slumber  with  its  blessed  ray, 
For  the  Night  cometh ! 

Ye,  who  in  home's  narrow  circle  dwell, 

Where  Love's  flame  lights  up  the  household  hearth, 

Weave  the  silken  bond,  and  frame  the  spell, 
Binding  heart  to  heart  throughout  the  earth; 

Pleasant  toil  is  yours ;  the  light  of  day 

On  nought  holier  sheds  its  blessed  ray, 

Yet  the  Night  cometh! 

Diverse  though  our  paths  in  life  may  be, 

Each  is  sent  some  mission  to  fulfil ; 
Fellow-workers  in  the  world  are  we, 

While  we  seek  to  do  our  Master's  will; 
But  our  doom  is  labour,  while  the  day 
Points  us  to  our  task,  with  blessed  ray, 
For  the  Night  cometh ! 


Fellow-workers  are  we :  hour  by  hour, 

Human  tools  are  shaping  Heaven's  great  schemes, 

Till  we  see  no  limit  to  man's  power, 
And  reality  outstrips  old  dreams. 

Toil  and  struggle,  therefore,  work  and  weep, 

In  God's  acre  ye  shall  calmly  sleep, 

When  the  Night  cometh! 


EMMA     C.     EMBURY.  221 

CHRIST     IN      THE     TEMPEST. 

ST.  MATTHEW,  viii.  24 —  27. 

MIDNIGHT  was  on  the  mighty  deep, 

And  darkness  filled  the  boundless  sky, 
While  'mid  the  raging  wind  was  heard 

The  sea-bird's  mournful  cry  ; 
For  tempest  clouds  were  mustering  wrath 
Across  the  seaman's  trackless  path. 

It  came  at  length  —  one  fearful  gust 

Rent  from  the  mast  the  shivering  sail, 
And  drove  the  helpless  bark  along, 

The  plaything  of  the  gale. 
While  fearfully  the  lightning's  glare 
Fell  on  the  pale  brows  gathered  there. 

But  there  was  one  o'er  whose  bright  face 

Unmarked  the  livid  lightnings  flashed ; 
And  on  whose  stirless,  prostrate  form 

Unfelt  the  sea-spray  dashed  ; 
For  'mid  the  tempest  fierce  and  wild, 
He  slumbered  like  a  wearied  child. 

Oh !  who  could  look  upon  that  face, 

And  feel  the  sting  of  coward  fear? 
Though  hell's  fierce  demons  raged  around, 

Yet  heaven  itself  was  here; 
For  who  that  glorious  brow  could  see, 
Nor  own  a  present  Deity  ? 

With  hurried  fear  they  press  around 

The  lowly  Saviour's  humble  bed, 
As  if  his  very  touch  had  power 

To  shield  their  souls  from  dread; 
19* 


222  EMMA     C.     EMBURY. 

While,  cradled  on  the  raging  deep, 
He  lay  in  calm  and  tranquil  sleep. 

Vainly  they  struggled  with  their  fears, 
But  wilder  still  the  tempest  woke, 

Till  from  their  full  and  o'erfraught  hearts 
The  voice  of  terror  broke : 

u  Behold !  we  sink  beneath  the  wave, 

We  perish,  Lord!  but  thou  canst  save." 

Slowly  he  rose ;  and  mild  rebuke 

Shone  in  his  soft  and  heaven-lit  eye: 

"  Oh  ye  of  little  faith,"  he  cried, 
"  Is  not  your  master  nigh  ? 

Is  not  your  hope  of  succour  just  ? 

Why  know  ye  not  in  whom  ye  trust  ?" 

He  turned  away,  and  conscious  power 

Dilated  his  majestic  form, 
As  o'er  the  boiling  sea  he  bent, 

The  ruler  of  the  storm ; 
Earth  to  its  centre  felt  the  thrill, 
As  low  he  murmured :  "  Peace !  Be  still !" 

Hark  to  the  burst  of  meeting  waves, 
The  roaring  of  the  angry  sea ! 

A  moment  more,  and  all  is  hushed 
In  deep  tranquillity ; 

While  not  a  breeze  is  near  to  break 

The  mirrored  surface  of  the  lake. 

Then  on  the  stricken  hearts  of  all 
Fell  anxious  doubt  and  holy  awe, 

As  timidly  they  gazed  on  him 
Whose  will  was  nature's  law  : 

"  What  man  is  this,"  they  cry,  "  whose  word 

E'en  by  the  raging  sea  is  heard  ?" 


EMMA     C.     EMBURY.  223 


JANE      OF      FRANCE. 

"Jeanne  de  France  etoit  fille  de  Louis  XI.  et  soeur  de  Charles  VIII. 
On  la  mari  a  l'&ge  de  vingt  deux  ans  avec  Louis  XII.,  1'an  1476.  Elle 
en  usa  bien  avec  lui  pendant  qu'  il  etoit  disgracie  ;  et  ce  fut  elle  qui,  par 
ses  prieres,  le  fit  sortir  de  prison,  1'an  1491  ;  mais  cela  ne  fut  point 
capable  de  balancer  dans  le  coeur  de  son  mari  I'inclination  violente  qu' 
il  avoit  pour  la  veuve  de  Charles  VIII.  C'etoit  Anne  de  Bretagne,  il 
1'avoit  aimee,  et  en  avoit  ete  aime  avant  qu'  elle  epousat  Charles.  Afin 
done  de  contenter  son  envie,  il  fit  rompre  son  mariage,  et  il  promit  tant 
de  recompense  au  Pape  Alexandre  VI.  qu'  il  en  obtint  tout  ce  qu'  il 
voulut.'; — Bayle — Didionnaire. 

PALE,  cold  and  statue-like  she  sate,  and  her  impeded  breath 
Came  gaspingly,  as  if  her  heart  was  in  the  grasp  of  death, 
While   listening   to    the   harsh    decree   that    robbed   her    of    a 

throne, 
And  left  the  gentle  child  of  kings  in  the  wide  world  alone. 

And   fearful    was    her    look;    in    vain    her    trembling   maidens 

moved, 
With   all   affection's    tender    care,  round  her  whom  well    they 

loved ; 

Stirless  she  sate,  as  if  enchained  by  some  resistless  spell, 
Till  with  one  wild,  heart-piercing  shriek  in  their  embrace  she 

fell. 

How  bitter  was  the  hour  she  woke  from  that  long  dreamless 
trance ! 

The  veriest  wretch  might  pity  then  the  envied  Jane  of  France ; 

But  soon  her  o'erfraught  heart  gave  way,  tears  came  to  her 
relief, 

And  thus,  in  low  and  plaintive  tones,  she  breathed  her  hope 
less  grief: 

"Oh!  ever  have  I  dreaded  this,  since  at  the  holy  shrine 
My  trembling  hand  first  felt  the  cold,  reluctant  grasp  of  thine, 
And  yet  I  hoped  —  My  own  beloved,  how  may  I  teach  my  heart 
To  gaze  upon  thy  gentle  face  and  know  that  we  must  part  ? 


224  EMMA     C.     EMBURY. 

"  Too  well    I    knew  thou   lovedst   me    not,  but   ah !   I   fondly 

thought 
That  years  of  such    deep  love  as  mine  some  change  ere  this 

had  wrought; 
I  dreamed  the  hour  might  yet  arrive,  when,  sick   of  passion's 

strife, 
Thy  heart  would  turn  with  quiet  joy  to  thy  neglected  wife. 

"  Vain,  foolish   hope !    how   could    I   look   upon    thy   glorious 

form, 
And  think  that  e'er  the  time  might  come  when  thou  wouldst 

cease  to  charm  ? 

For  ne'er  till  then  wilt  thou  be  freed  from  beauty's  magic  art, 
Or  cease  to  prize  a  sunny  smile  beyond  a  faithful  heart. 

"  In  vain  from  memory's  darkened  scroll  would  other  thoughts 

erase 
The    loathing    that   was    in    thine    eye,    whene'er   it   met   my 

face  : 

Oh  !  I  would  give  the  fairest  realm,  beneath  the  all-seeing  sun, 
To  win  but  such  a  form  as  thou  mightst  love  to  look  upon. 

"  Woe,  woe  for  woman's  weary  lot,  if  beauty  be  not  hers  ; 
Vainly  within  her  gentle  breast  affection  wildly  stirs ; 
And  bitterly  will  she  deplore,  amid  her  sick  heart's  dearth, 
The    hour    that    fixed    her   fearful    doom  —  a   helot   from    her 
birth. 

u  I  would  thou  hadst  been  cold  and  stern,  —  the  pride  of  my 

high  race 
Had    taught  me    then   from   my  young   heart   thine    image   to 

efface ; 
But  surely  even  love's  sweet  tones  could  ne'er  have  power  to 

bless 
My  bosom  with  such  joy  as  did  thy  pitying  tenderness. 


EMMA     C.     EMBURY.  225 

"  Alas !  it  is  a  heavy  task  to  curb  the  haughty  soul, 

And  bid  th'  unbending  spirit  bow  that  never  knew  control ; 

But    harder    still    when    thus    the    heart    against    itself    must 

rise, 
And    struggle    on,   while  every  hope   that   nerved    the  warfare 

dies. 

"Yet   all    this   have    I    borne    for  thee  —  ay,    for   thy    sake    I 

learned 
The   gentleness    of  thought   and  word  which  once  my  proud 

heart  spurned ; 
The    treasures    of  an   untouched   heart,  the  wealth    of   love's 

rich  mine, 
These  are  the  offerings  that  I  laid  upon  my  idol's  shrine. 

"  In  vain  I  breathed    my  vows    to   heaven,  'twas   mockery  of 

prayer ; 

In  vain  I  knelt  before  the  cross,  I  saw  but  Louis  there: 
To    him    I   gave    the    worship    that    I    should    have    paid    my 

God, 
But  oh  !  should  his  have  been  the  hand  to  wield  the  avenging 

rod? 


ABSENCE. 

COME  to  me,  Love  ;  forget  each  sordid  duty 

That  chains  thy  footsteps  to  the  crowded  mart,. 

Come,  look  with  me  upon  earth's  summer  beauty,. 
And  let  its  influence  cheer  thy  weary  heart. 
Come  to  me,  Love ! 

Come  to  me,  Love ;   the  voice  of  song  is  swelling 
From  nature's  harp  in  every  varied  tone, 

And  many  a  voice  of  bird  and   bee  is  telling 
A  tale  of  joy  amid  the  forests  lone ; 

Come  to  me,  Love ! 
p 


226  EMMA     C.     EMBURY. 

Come  to  me,  Love ;  my  heart  can  never  doubt  thee, 
Yet  for  thy  sweet  companionship  I  pine; 

Oh,  never  more  can  joy  be  joy  without  thee, 
My  pleasures,  even  as  my  life,  are  thine; 
Come  to  me,  Love! 


FAREWELL. 


Go,  dearest  one,  nor  think  my  heart 

Will  ever  breathe  a  sigh, 
Because  it  never  more  may  share 

Thy  glorious  destiny, 
My  love  has  never  sought  reward, 

'T  was  joy  enough  for  me 
To  dwell  within  my  solitude, 

And  cherish  thoughts  of  thee. 

While  yet  a  child  I  freely  gave 

Affection's  untold  wealth, 
Since  then   I've  seen  the  swift  decay 

Of  hope,  and  joy,  and  health, 
Yet  murmured  not  at  Heaven's  decree, 

Though  thus  of  all  bereft. 
While  thou,  beloved,  wert  at  my  side, 

A  world  of  bliss  was  left. 

Though  other  ties  thy  soul  may  bind, 

Though  we  are  doomed  to  part, 
Yet  still  it  is  no  sin  to  hide 

Thine  image  in  my  heart; 
So  sweet,  so  holy  was  the  spell 

By  Love  around  me  cast, 
That  even  now  I  would  not  wake, 

Although  the  charm  be  past. 

Within  thy  memory  by-past  days 
Will  leave  a  pleasant  trace, 

I J 


EMMA     C.     EMBURY.  227 

Not  all  another's  happier  love 

Those  bright  tints  can  efface ; 
Her  lot  must  be  a  joyous  one, 

If  thou  her  fate  control, 
But  I  have  known  that  higher  bliss  — 

A  union  of  the  soul. 

Farewell,  beloved  one :  when  thy  brow 

The  laurel-crown  shall  bind, 
When  men  are  taught  by  thee  to  own 

The  sovereignty  of  mind, 
Then  think  of  one  who  looks  on  thee 

With  more  than  woman's  pride, 
And  glories  in  the  thought  that  she 

Has  been  thy  spirit's  bride. 

MAIDEN     PURITY. 

(THE     LILY     OF    THE    NILE.) 

BE  thine  the  emblem,  sweet  one  —  watch  and  pray, 
Win  thy  young,  stainless  heart  from  earthly  things ; 

Oh !  wait  not  thou  till  life's  bright  morning  ray 
Only  o'er  blighted  hopes  its  radiance  flings, 

But  give  to  Heaven  thy  sinless  spirit  now, 

Ere  sorrow's  tracery  mar  thy  placid  brow. 

Sinless  and  pure  thou  art,  yet  is  thy  soul 

Filled  with  a  maiden's  vague  and  pleasant  dreams, 

Sweet  fantasies  that  mock  at  truth's  control, 
Like  atoms  round  thee  float  in  fancy's  beams ; 

But  trust  them  not,  young  dreamer  —  bid  them  flee, 

They  have  deceived  all  others,  and  will  thee. 

Well  can  I  read  thy  thoughts  —  thy  gentle  heart 

(Already  woman's  in  its  wish  to  bless) 
Now  longs  for  one  to  whom  it  may  impart 

Its  untold  wealth  of  hidden  tenderness, 


228  EMMA     C.     EMBURY. 

And  yearns  to  know  the  meaning  of  the  thrill 
That  wakes  when  fancy  stirs  affection's  rill. 

Thou  dreamest  of  love's  happiness,  —  the  deep 
And  placid  joy  which  poets  paint  so  well. 

Alas  !  our  passions,  even  when  they  sleep, 

Like  ocean  waves,  are  heaved  with  secret  swell, 

And  they  who  hear  the  frequent,  low-breathed  sigh, 

Know  't  is  the  wailing  of  the  storm  gone  by. 

Vain,  vain  are  all  thy  visions ;  couldst  thou  know 
The  secrets  of  a  woman's  weary  lot, 

Oh  !  couldst  thou  read  upon  her  pride-veiled  brow 
Her  wasted  tenderness,  her  love  forgot, 

In  humbleness  of  heart  thou  wouldst  kneel  down, 

And  pray  for  strength  to  wear  her  martyr  crown. 


HOW  HAVE  I  THOUGHT  OF  THEE? 

How  have  I  thought  of  thee  ?  as  flies 

The  dove  to  seek  her  mate, 
Trembling  lest  some  rude  hand  has  made 

Her  sweet  home  desolate ; 
Thus  timidly  I  seek  in  thine, 
The  only  heart  that  throbs  with  mine. 

How  have  I  thought  of  thee  ?  as  turns 

The  flower  to  meet  the  sun, 
E'en  though,  when  clouds  and  storms  arise, 

It  be  not  shone  upon : 
Thus,  dear  one,  in  thine  eye  I  see 
The  only  light  that  beams  for  me. 

How  have  I  thought  of  thee  ?  as  dreams 

The  mariner  of  home, 
When  doomed  o'er  many  a  weary  waste 

Of  waters  yet  to  roam ; 


EMMA    C.     EMBURY.  229 

Thus  doth  my  spirit  turn  to  thee, 
My  guiding  star  o'er  life's  wild  sea. 

How  have  I  thought  of  thee  ?  as  kneels 

The  Persian  at  the  shrine 
Of  his  resplendent  god,  to  watch 

His  earliest  glories  shine  ; 
Thus  doth  my  spirit  bow  to  thee, 
My  soul's  own  radiant  deity. 

CONFIDENCE     IN     HEAVEN. 

IT  is  in  vain  the  weary  spirit  strives 

With  that  which  doth  consume  it;  —  there  is  born 
A  strength  from  suffering  which  can  laugh  to  scorn 

The  stroke  of  sorrow,  even  though  it   rives 

Our  very  heart-strings ;  —  but  the  grief  that  lives 
For  ever  in  the  heart,  and  day  by  day 
Wastes  the  soul's  high-wrought  energies  away, 

And  wears  the  lofty  spirit  down,  and  gives 
Its  own  dark  hue  to  life,  oh !  who  can  bear  ? 
Yet,  as  the  black  and  threatening  tempests  bring 

New  fragrance  to  earth's  flowers,  and  tints  more  fair, 
So  beneath  sorrow's  nurture  virtues  spring. 

Youth,  health,  and  hope,  may  fade,  but  there  is  left 

A  soul  that  trusts  in  Heaven,  though  thus  of  all  bereft. 

REMEMBRANCE. 

THOU  hast  left  us,  and  for  ever; 

The  light  of  those  sweet  eyes 
Will  beam  upon  us  never 

Till  we  meet  beyond  the  skies. 
Life's  sunshine  was  around  thee, 

The  world  looked  glad  and  bright, 
And  the  ties  of  love  that  bound  thee 

Might  have  stayed  thy  spirit's  flight ; 
20 


230  EMMA     C.     EMBURY. 

But  the  bonds  that  earth  entwineth 
Are  all  too  weak  to  stay, 

When  the  far  off  Heaven  shineth, 
The  spirit's  upward  way. 

Thou  hast  left  us,  and  for  ever; 

Thy  smile  of  quiet  mirth, 
Thy  low  sweet  voice,  shall  never 

Soothe  our  aching  hearts  on  earth; 
The  joys  thy  presence  cherished 

Like  mourning  dreams  have  fled, 
And  many  a  fair  hope  perished 

Upon  thy  narrow  bed. 
For  the  love  that  we  have  borne  thee 

Thy  loss  we  needs  must  weep, 
But  even  while  we  mourn  thee, 

We  envy  thee  thy  sleep. 


LOVE     ME     STILL. 

WHEN  'mid  the  festive  scene  we  meet, 

To  joyous  bosoms  dear, 
Though  other  voices  fall  more  sweet 

Upon  thy  listening  ear, 
Yet  scorn  not  thou  my  ruder  tone; 
Oh !  think  my  heart  is  all  thine  own, 

And  love  me  still. 

When  o'er  young  Beauty's  cheek  of  rose 

Thine  eye  delighted  strays, 
Half  proud  to  watch  the  blush  that  glows 

Beneath  thine  ardent  gaze, 
Oh !  think  that  but  for  sorrow's  blight 
My  faded  cheek  had  yet  been  bright, 

And  love  me  still. 


EMMA     C.     EMBURY. 


231 


POOR,     BUT     HAPPY. 

WE'LL  have  a  cot 

Upon  the  banks  of  some  meandering  stream, 
Whose  ripple,  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
Shall  be  our  music:  roses  there  shall  twine 
Around  the  casement,  with  the  jessamine, 
Whose  starry  blossoms  shine  out  from  beneath 
Their  veiling  leaves,  like  hope,  and  whose  faint  breath 
Is  sweet  as  memory's  perfume.     All  the  flowers 
That  nature  in  her  richest  bounty  showers 
Shall  deck  our  home :  fresh  violets,  that,  like  light, 
And  love,  and  hope,  dwell  everywhere ;  the  bright 
And  fragrant  honeysuckle,  too;  our  feet 
Shall  press  the  daisy's  bloom.     Oh!  'twill  be  sweet 
To  sit  within  the  porch  at  eventide, 
And  drink  the  breath  of  heaven  at  thy  dear  side. 
The  sky  will  wear  a  smile  unseen  before, 
The  sun  for  me  more  genial  light  will  pour, 
Earth  will  give  out  its  treasures  rich  and  rare, 
New  health  will  come  in  every  balmy  air. 

Then  thou  wilt  ope  to  me  great  Nature's  book, 

And  nightly  on  the  star-gemmed  heavens  we'll  look; 

Thou,  with  the  pride  of  knowledge,  wilt  unfold 

The  mighty  chart  where  science  is  enrolled, 

And  gaily  smile  when  I  recount  to  thee 

My  wild  and  wayward  flights  of  fantasy; 

For  the  frail  beings  of  my  dreamy  heaven 

Shrink  from  the  light  by  scholiast  wisdom  given. 

Wilt  thou  not  joy  to  see  the  vivid  glow 

Of  my  expanded  mind,  when  I  shall  owe 

Its  treasures  all  to  thee  ? 


232 


EMMA     C.     EMBURY. 


Methinks  it  would  be  grief  for  me  to  bear 
E'en  bliss,  beloved,  unless  thou  too  might  share; 
But  oh!  were  joy  poured  forth  in  such  excess, 
My  heart  would  break  from  very  happiness. 


ERROR. 

BECAUSE  my  heart  dwelt  not  like  cloistered  nun 
In  lonely  cell  unquiet  silence  keeping, 

Because  it  went  forth  'neath  Hope's  blessed  sun, 
And  freely  shared  another's  joy  and  weeping, 
Thou  hast  mistaken  me. 

Because  my  sympathy  awoke  from  sleep, 
And  frankly  did  unclose  affection's  portal 

To  thoughts  of  tenderness  as  pure,  as  deep, 
As  ever  proved  the  human  soul  immortal, 

Thou  hast  mistaken  me. 

Because  thy  feebler  spirit,  lacking  power, 

By  generous  thought  such  priceless  love  to  measure, 

Awoke  its  base  distrust  in  that  sweet  hour 

When  my  fond  heart  revealed  its  hidden  treasure, 
Thou  hast  mistaken  me. 

INQUIETUDE. 

METHOUGHT  the  icy  hand  of  Time  had  chilled 
The  gushing  fount  of  passion  in  my  breast  — 

Methought  that  Reason's  power,  for  aye,  had  stilled 
The  bitter  struggles  of  my  heart's  unrest. 

Cole,  calm,  and  self-possessing,  I  had  deemed 
Jn  quiet  now  to  view  life  slip  away  — 

Forgetting  much  that  once  my  soul  had  dreamed, 
And  lengthening  out  in  peace  my  little  day. 


EMMA     C  .     EMBURY. 


233 


Safe  in  indifference,  I  had  vainly  hoped 

To  scorn  the  sympathy  1  might  not  share, 

And  little  thought  mine  own  hand  would  have  oped 
My  bosom's  portal  to  returning  care. 

How  burns  the  blush  of  shame  upon  my  cheek  — 
How  bends  to  earth  in  grief  my  haughty  brow, 

When  thus  I  find  myself  disarmed  and  weak 
Before  the  ideal  shapes  that  haunt  me  now! 

Oh  God!  how  long,  misled  by  erring  thought, 
Shall  I  grope  darkly  on  in  feeling's  maze? 

When  shall  I  be  by  Time's  sad  lessons  taught, 
And  reach  my  home  of  rest  by  quiet  ways  ? 

OH!  TELL  ME  NOT  OF  LOFTY  FATE. 

OH  !  tell  me  not  of  lofty  fate, 

Of  glory's  deathless  name ; 
The  bosom  Love  leaves  desolate, 

Has  naught  to  do  with  fame. 

Vainly  philosophy  would  soar  — 
Love's  height  it  may  not  reach ; 

The  heart  soon  learns  a  sweeter  lore 
Than  ever  sage  could  teach. 

The  cup  may  bear  a  poisoned  draught, 

The  altar  may  be  cold, 
But  yet  the  chalice  will  be  quaffed  — 

The  shrine  sought  as  of  old. 

Man's  sterner  nature  turns  away 

To  seek  ambition's  goal ; 
Wealth's  glittering  gifts,  and  pleasure's  ray, 

May  charm  his  weary  soul ; — 
20* 


232 


EMMA     C.     EMBURY. 


Methinks  it  would  be  grief  for  me  to  bear 
E'en  bliss,  beloved,  unless  thou  too  might  share; 
But  oh!  were  joy  poured  forth  in  such  excess, 
My  heart  would  break  from  very  happiness. 


ERROR. 

BECAUSE  my  heart  dwelt  not  like  cloistered  nun 
In  lonely  cell  unquiet  silence  keeping, 

Because  it  went  forth  'neath  Hope's  blessed  sun, 
And  freely  shared  another's  joy  and  weeping, 
Thou  hast  mistaken  me. 

Because  my  sympathy  awoke  from  sleep, 
And  frankly  did  unclose  affection's  portal 

To  thoughts  of  tenderness  as  pure,  as  deep, 
As  ever  proved  the  human  soul  immortal, 

Thou  hast  mistaken  me. 

Because  thy  feebler  spirit,  lacking  power, 

By  generous  thought  such  priceless  love  to  measure, 

Awoke  its  base  distrust  in  that  sweet  hour 

When  my  fond  heart  revealed  its  hidden  treasure, 
Thou  hast  mistaken  me. 


INQUIETUDE. 

METHOUGHT  the  icy  hand  of  Time  had  chilled 
The  gushing  fount  of  passion  in  my  breast  — 

Methought  that  Reason's  power,  for  aye,  had  stilled 
The  bitter  struggles  of  my  heart's  unrest. 

Cole,  calm,  and  self-possessing,  I  had  deemed 
In  quiet  now  to  view  life  slip  away  — 

Forgetting  much  that  once  my  soul  had  dreamed, 
And  lengthening  out  in  peace  my  little  day. 


EMMA     C.     EMBURY.  233 

Safe  in  indifference,  I  had  vainly  hoped 

To  scorn  the  sympathy  1  might  not  share, 

And  little  thought  mine  own  hand  would  have  oped 
My  bosom's  portal  to  returning  care. 

How  burns  the  blush  of  shame  upon  my  cheek  — 
flow  bends  to  earth  in  grief  my  haughty  brow, 

When  thus  I  find  myself  disarmed  and  weak 
Before  the  ideal  shapes  that  haunt  me  now! 

Oh  God!  how  long,  misled  by  erring  thought, 
Shall  I  grope  darkly  on  in  feeling's  maze? 

When  shall  I  be  by  Time's  sad  lessons  taught, 
And  reach  my  home  of  rest  by  quiet  ways  ? 

OH!  TELL  ME  NOT  OF  LOFTY  FATE. 

OH  !  tell  me  not  of  lofty  fate, 

Of  glory's  deathless  name ; 
The  bosom  Love  leaves  desolate, 

Has  naught  to  do  with  fame. 

Vainly  philosophy  would  soar  — 
Love's  height  it  may  not  reach ; 

The  heart  soon  learns  a  sweeter  lore 
Than  ever  sage  could  teach. 

The  cup  may  bear  a  poisoned  draught, 

The  altar  may  be  cold, 
But  yet  the  chalice  will  be  quaffed  — 

The  shrine  sought  as  of  old. 

Man's  sterner  nature  turns  away 

To  seek  ambition's  goal ; 
Wealth's  glittering  gifts,  and  pleasure's  ray, 

May  charm  his  weary  soul; — 
20* 


234  EMMA     C.     EMBURY. 

But  woman  knows  one  only  dream  — 
That  broken,  all  is  o'er; 

For  on  life's  dark  and  sluggish  stream 
Hope's  sunbeam  rests  no  more. 


DARK     THOUGHTS. 

AH!  is  this,  then,  the  common  lot  — 

The  end  of  earthly  love  and  trust  ? 
To  be  by  cherished  ones  forgot, 

When  the  frail  body  sleeps  in  dust? 
Shall  hearts,  which  now  with  love  run  o'er, 

Retain  for  us  no  deeper  trace 
Than  leaves  the  foot-print  on  the  shore, 

Which  the  next  wavelet  may  efface? 

Shall  those  who  once  could  only  live 

Within  the  sunshine  of  our  smile, 
To  whom  existence  could  not  give 

A  joy  unshared  by  us  the  while  : 
Shall  they  'mid  other  joys  live  on, 

And  form  anew  affection's  tie, 
When  we  from  earth's  delights  are  gone, 

For  ever  hid  from  human  eye? 

Ay,  thus  it  is  th'  eternal  laws 

That  rule  our  nature  are  obeyed  : 
Not  in  mid  conflict  may  we  pause 

To  linger  long  where  love  is  laid; 
We  pile  the  turf  above  the  breast 

Which  pillowed  oft  our  aching  head, 
Then  turn,  and  leave  unto  its  rest 

Our  buried,  half-forgotten  dead. 

Tears  —  the  heart's  desolating-  rain, 
Awhile  upon  our  path  may  fall, 


235 


EMMA     C.     EMBURY. 

But  hope's  sweet  sunshine  smiles  again 
On  all  things  save  the  funeral  pall: — 

Anon  the  dirge's  mournful  measure 

Js  changed  to  some  less  saddening  strain, 

And  soon  the  echoing  voice  of  pleasure 
Tells  Love  and  Grief  alike  were  vain. 

We  form  new  schemes  of  future  bliss, 

New  flowers  spring  up  to  cheer  our  way, 
And  scarcely  from  our  side  we  miss 

The  partners  of  life's  earlier  day ; 
Alas !  how  vain  our  noblest  feelings, 

How  idle  would  affection  seem, 
Did  not  God  give  us  bright  revealings 

Of  Life,  where  Love  is  not  a  dream ! 


HE  EDLE  S  SNE  S  S. 

WHEN  like  a  fairy  scene,  in  youth, 

The  untried   world  is  spread  before  us, 
When  fancy  wears  the  garb  of  truth, 

And  sunny  skies  are  shining  o'er  us ; 
When  never  yet  a  dream  of  woe 

The  heart's  deep  sympathies  have  stirred, 
How  little  then  our  spirits  know 

The  evils  of  a  thoughtless  word ! 

When  one  by  one  our  joys  depart, 

When  hope  no  more  each  bright  hour  measures, 
When,  like  a  Niobe,  the  heart 

Sits  lonely  'mid  its  perished  treasures ; 
When  far  from  human  aid  we  turn, 

And  human  comfort  is  unheard, 
Oh !  then,  how  bitterly  we  learn 

The  anguish  of  a  thoughtless  word ! 


I 

L. 


SAKAH  HELENA  WHITMAN. 

MRS.  WHITMAN,  whose  maiden  name  was  Power,  is  a  native  of  Pro 
vidence,  Rhode  Island.  Her  father,  a  merchant  of  that  city,  was 
descended  from  Nicholas  Power,  who,  with  a  few  other  bold  spirits, 
consorted  with  Roger  Williams  after  his  exile  from  Salem,  "  to  estab 
lish  in  the  wilderness,  a  community  maintaining-  the  entire  emancipation 
of  the  individual  mind  from  all  spiritual  jurisdiction  and  thraldom."  For 
his  liberal  opinions  he  was  illiberally  arraigned  before  the  General  Court 
of  Massachusetts,  in  1642. 

Miss  Power  was  married  in  1828  to  John  Winslow  Whitman,  a  son 
of  the  Hon.  Kilborn  Whitman,  of  Pembroke,  Mass. ;  and  a  descendant  on 
the  mother's  side  from  Edward  Winslow,  the  first  governor  of  Plymouth. 
Mr.  Whitman  passed  his  childhood  at  the  residence  of  his  grandfather, 
Careswell  farm,  Marshfield.  We  mention  this,  because  it  was  a  spot 
that  possessed  many  charms  for  the  poetical  mind  of  his  gifted  wife,  who 
has  published  an  interesting  account  of  a  visit  made  to  the  old  mansion  ; 
when  it  was  still  graced  with  many  of  the  antique  oaken  chairs  and 
massive  tables  brought  to  this  country  in  the  May-Flower,  its  walls  still 
decorated  with  the  curious  old  family  pictures,  which  have  since  been 
deposited  in  the  Antiquarian  and  Historical  Societies  of  Massachusetts. 
Mr.  Whitman  commenced  the  practice  of  law  in  Boston,  and  was  distin 
guished  for  his  learning  and  wit;  but,  while  all  things  promised  him  a 
brilliant  and  successful  career,  he  was  cut  off  in  the  midst  of  his  days. 
After  the  death  of  her  husband,  Mrs.  Whitman  returned  to  her  native 
city,  and  has  resided  there  with  her  mother  ever  since.  She  has,  for 
some  years  past,  contributed  to  the  best  of  our  magazines  and  reviews ; 
and  her  skilful  pen  has  won — not  a  wide  popularity,  but — an  honourable 
reputation  among  the  most  able  judges  in  matters  of  literary  taste.  Her 
prose  writings  exhibit  much  clearness  of  perception,  and  vigour 
of  thought.  Her  translations  from  the  German  poets  have  been 
highly  praised  for  the  ability  with  which  the  spirit  of  the  origi 
nal  is  retained ;  none  of  the  freshness  or  bloom  being  lost  in  passing 
through  her  delicate  hands.  Her  own  poems  are  chiefly  records  of 
experience ;  —  the  experience  of  a  gentle  and  refined  woman,  devoted 

(236) 


SARAH     HELENA     WHITMAN.  237 

to  beauty,  nature,  and  truth.  Her  love  for  nature  has  made  her  a  keen 
observer,  and  many  of  her  descriptions  are  most  exquisitely  painted 
landscapes.  Her  ear  is  fine  for  the  melody  of  language,  and  her  taste 
correct  in  the  use  of  it. 


THOUGHTS      OF      THE      PAST. 

"A  green  and  silent  spot  among  the  hills." 


CoLEHIDOE, 


IN  the  soft  gloom  of  summer's  balmy  eve, 
When  from  the  lingering  glances  of  the  sun 
The  sad  earth  turns  away  her  blushing  cheek, 
Mantling  its  glow  in  twilight's  shadowy  veil, — 
Oft  'mid  the  falling  dews  I  love  to  stray; 
Onward  and  onward  through  the  pleasant  fields, 
Far  up  the  lilied  borders  of  the  stream, 
To  this  "green  silent  spot  among  the  hills," 
Endeared  by  thronging  memories  of  the  past.    • 

Oft  have  1  lingered  on  this  rustic  bridge, 

To  view  the  limpid  waters,  winding  on 

Under  dim-vaulted  woods,  whose  woven  boughs 

Of  beach,  and  maple,  and  broad  sycamore, 

Throw  their  soft  moving  shadows  o'er  the  wave, 

While  blossomed  vines,  dropt  to  the  water's  brim, 

Hang  idly  swaying  in  the  summer  wind. 

The  birds  that  wander  thro'  the  twilight  heaven 
Are  mirror'd  far  beneath  me;  — and  young  leaves 
That  tremble  on  the  birch  tree's  silver  boughs, 
In  the  cool  wave  reflected,  gleam  below 
Like  twinkling  stars  athwart  the  verdant  gloom. 

A  sound  of  rippling  water  rises  sweet 
Amid  the  silence ;  and  the  western  breeze 
Sighing  through  sedges,  and  low  meadow  blooms, 


238  SARAH     HELENA     WHITMAN. 

Comes  wafting  gentle  thoughts  from  Memory's  land, 
And  wakes  the  long  hushed  music  of  the  heart. 

Oft  dewy  spring  hath  brimmed  the  brook  with  showers, 

Oft  hath  the  long,  bright  summer  fringed  its  banks 

With  fragrant  blossoms,  and  the  autumn  sere 

Shed  mellow  hues  on  all  its  wooded  shores, 

Since  first  I  trod  these  paths  in  youth's  sweet  prime, 

With  loved  ones  whom  time's  desolating  wave 

Hath  wafted  now  for  ever  from  my  side. 

The  living  stream  still  lingers  on  its  way 

In  idle  dalliance  with  the  dew-lipped  flowers, 

That  toss  their  fairy  heads  at  its  caress, 

Or  trembling  listen  to  its  silver  voice ; 

While  through  yon  rifted  boughs,  the  evening  star 

Is  seen  above  the  hill-top,  beautiful 

As  when  on  many  a  balmy  summer  night, 

Lapp'd  in  sweet  dreams,  "  in  holy  passion  hush'd," 

I  saw  its  ray  slant  through  the  dusky  pines. 

Long  years  have  passed,  and  by  the  unchanging  stream, 

Bereft  and  sorrow-taught,  alone  I  stand 

Listening  the  hollow  music  of  the  winds. 

Alone,  —  alone;  —  the  stars  are  far  away, 

And  frequent  clouds  shut  out  the  summer  heaven, 

But  still  the  calm  earth  keeps  her  constant  course, 

And  whispers  —  "Hope,"  thro'  all  her  breathing  bowers! 

Not  all  in  vain  the  vision  of  our  youth, 

The  apocalypse  of  beauty  and  of  love, 

The  slag-like  heart  of  hope;  —  life's  mystic  dream 

The  soul  shall  yet  interpret,  to  our  prayer 

The  Isis  veil  be  lifted !     Though  we  pine 

E'en  'mid  the  ungather'd  roses  of  our  youth, 

Pierced  with  strange  pangs,  and  longings  vague  yet  sweet, 

As  if  earth's  fairest  flowers  served  but  to  wake 


SARAH     HELENA     WHITMAN.  239 

Sad  haunting  memories  of  our  Eden  home ;  — 
Not  all  in  vain ! 

Meantime  in  patient  trust 
Rest  we  on  Nature's  bosom ;  from  her  eye 
Serene  and  still,  drinking  in  faith  and  love; 
To  her  calm  pulse  attempering  the  heart 
That  throbs  too  wildly  for  ideal  bliss. 
Oh!   holy  mother,  heal  me,  for  1  faint 
Upon  life's  arid  pathway,  and  u  my  feet 
On  the  dark  mountains  stumble!"     Near  thy  heart 
Close  nestling  let  me  lie,  and  let  thy  breath, 
Fragrant  and  cool,  fall  on  my  fever'd  cheek, 
As  in  those  unworn  ages  ere  pale  thought 
Forestall'd  life's  patient  harvest.     Give  me  strength 
In  generous  abandonment  of  heart, 
To  follow  wheresoe'er  o'er  the  world's  waste 
The  cloudy  pillar  moveth,  till  at  last 
It  guides  to  pleasant  vales  and  pastures  green, 
By  the  still  waters  of  eternal  life  ! 


A     SONG     OF     SPRING. 

IN  April's  dim  and  showery  nights, 
When  wandering  perfumes,  faint  and  rare, 
Float  on  the  breeze;    and  phosphor  lights 
Glimmer  and  fade  along  the  air; 

When  the  green  turf  is  white  with  flowers, 
Where  orchards  shed  their  floral  wreath, 
And  like  the  fairy-gifted  child, 
Drop  precious  pearls  at  every  breath ; 

When  all  night  long  the  boughs  are  stirr'd 
With  fitful  warblings  from  the  nest, 
And  the  heart  flutters  like  a  bird, 
With  its  sweet,  passionate  unrest ; 


240  SARAH     HELENA     WHITMAN. 

Oh!    then,  beloved,  I  think  on  tliee ! 
And  on  that  life,  so  strangely  fair, 
Ere  yet  one  cloud  of  memory 
Had  gather'd  in  hope's  golden  air. 

I  think  on  thee,  and  thy  lone  grave, 
On  the  green  hill-side  far  away; 
I  see  the  wilding  flowers  that  wave 
Around  thee,  as  the  night-winds  sway. 

Though  Hope  can  ne'er  on  earth  fulfil 
The  glory  of  her  morning  dream, 
The  mystic  soul  of  Nature    still 
Resumes  her  sweet,  unfailing  theme. 

As  Proserpine  returned  once  more 
On  Enna's  flowery  fields  to  rove, 
Still  doth  the  breathing  spring  restore 
The  sorrowing  heart  to  light  and  love. 

And  still  though  only  clouds  remain 
On  life's  horizon,  cold  and  drear; 
The  dream  of  youth  returns  again, 
With  the  sweet  promise  of  the  year. 

DAVID.* 

And  hp  sent  and  brought  him  in.  Now  David  was  ruddy,  and  withal 
of  a  beautiful  countenance,  and  goodly  to  look  to.  And  the  Lord  said, 
Arise,  anoint  him,  for  this  is  he." — I.  SAM.  xvi.  11,  12. 


AY,  this  is  he  —  the  bold  and  gentle  boy, 
That  in  lone  pastures  by  the  mountain's  side 

Guarded  his  fold,  and  through  the  midnight  sky 
Saw  on  the  blast  the  "God  of  battles"  ride; 

*  Suggested  by  Hopping  Statue,  representing  the  young  champion  of 
Israel  in  the  act  of  throwing  the  sling. 


SARAH     HELENA     WHITMAN.  241 

Beheld  his  bannered  armies  on  the  height, 

And  heard  their  clarion  sound  through  all  the  stormy  night. 

The  valiant  boy  that  o'er  the  twilight  wold 
Tracked  the  dark  lion  and  ensanguined  bear ; 

Following  their  bloody  footsteps  from  the  fold 
Far  down  the  gorges  to  their  lonely  lair; 

This  the  stout  heart,  that  from  the  lion's  jaw 

Back  o'er  the  shuddering  waste  the  bleeding  victim  bore. 

Though  his  fair  looks  lie  all  unshorn  and  bare 
To  the  bold  toying  of  the  mountain  wind, 

A  conscious  glory  haunts  the  o'ershadowing  air, 
And  waits  with  glittering  coil  his  brows  to  bind, 

While  his  proud  temples  bend  superbly  down, 

As  if  they  felt  e'en  now  the  burden  of  a  crown. 

Though  a  stern  sorrow  slumbers  in  his  eyes, 

As  if  his  prophet  glance  foresaw  the  day 
When  the  dark  waters  o'er  his  soul  should  rise, 

And  friends  and  lovers  wander  far  away; 
Yet  the  graced  impress  of  that  floral  mouth 
Breathes  of  love's  golden  dream  and  the  voluptuous  South. 

Peerless  in  beauty  as  the  prophet  star, 

That  in  the  dewy  trances  of  the  dawn 
Floats  o'er  the  solitary  hills  afar, 

And  brings  sweet  tidings  of  the  lingering  morn; 
Or  weary  at  the  day-god's  loitering  wain, 
Strikes  on  the  harp  of  light  a  soft  prelusive  strain. 

So  his  wild  harp  with  psaltery  and  shawm 
Awoke  the  nations  in  thick  darkness  furled, 

While  mystic  winds  from  Gilead's  groves  of  balm 
Wafted  its  sweet  hosannas  through  the  world  : 

&  } 

So  when  the    day-spring  from  on  high  he  sang, 
With  joy  the  ancient  hills  and  lonely  valleys  rang. 
21 


244  SARAH     HELENA     WHITMAN. 

She  ne'er  will  hear  again  the  song 

Of  merry  birds  in  spring, 
Nor  roam  the  flowery  braes  among 

In  the  year's  young  blossoming; 
Nor  longer  in  the  lingering  light 

Of  Summer's  eve  shall  we, 
Lock'd  hand  in  hand,  together  sit 

Beneath  the  green-wood  tree. 

'Tis  therefore  that  I  dread  to  see 

The  glowing  Summer's  sun, 
And  balmy  blossoms  on  the  tree, 

Unfolding  one  by  one. 
They  speak  of  things  which  once  have  been, 

But  never  more  can  be ; 
And  earth,  all  deck'd  in  smiles  again, 

Is  still  a  waste  to  me. 


ON   CARLO    DOLCE'S   MAGDALEN. 

"There 
Seems  sorrow's  softness  charm'd  from  its  despair." 

BTHOW. 

THOU  fairest  penitent!  how  pure  the  light 
That  mantling  o'er  that  pale  transparent  brow, 
Through  sorrow's  shade,  shines  tremulously  bright; 
And  melts  in  rose-hues  o'er  thy  cheek  of  snow. 
As  if  thy  Saviour's  smile  of  pardoning  love 
Had  o'er  thy  beauty  a  soft  halo  thrown; 
And  poured  those  rays  of  glory  from  above, 
Circling  thy  temples  like  a  silvery  crown; 
Flooding  with  mellow  light  thy  long,  fair  hair, 
Whose  waves  of  shadowy  gold  ungathered  fall, 
Nor  longer,  'mid  their  wild  luxuriance,  wear 
The  flashing  gem,  or  flowery  coronal. 


SARAH     HELENA     WHITMAN.  245 

Though  every  line  of  that  sweet  thoughtful  face 
Seems  touched  by  sorrow  to  a  softer  grace, 
Though  o'er  thy  cheek's  young  bloom  a  blight  hath  pass'd, 
And  dimm'd  its  pensive  beauty; — from  thine  eye, 
With  the  soft  gloom  of  gathering  tears  o'ercast, 
Doth  love  shine  forth  o'er  all  triumphantly; 
A  light  which  shame  nor  sorrow  could  impair, 
Unquench'd,  undimm'd,  through  years  of  lone  despair. 

Yet  in  that  humid  mirror  trembles  still 

A  deprecating  sweetness  ;  —  a  fond  fear 

That  the  deep  love,  which  found  no  answering  thrill 

In  human  hearts,  might  nought  avail  thee  here. 

Poor  wanderer!  by  the  world's  cold  scorn  opprest, 
'Mid  the  wild  wreck  of  happiness  and  fame, 
Love  lingered  still  within  that  blighted  breast 
As  when  thy  lips  first  lisp'd  a  mother's  name. 

Woe  for  the  hearts,  poor  prodigal,  like  thine, 
Wasting  their  treasures  o'er  an  earthly  shrine  — 
The  full  deep  treasures  of  the  yearning  heart  — 
To  win  what  earthly  love  could  ne'er  impart;  — 
Vainest  of  life's  vain  dreams !  yet  didst  thou  find 
That  rock  at  last  whence  living  waters  burst, 
And  'neath  its  sheltering  canopy  reclined, 
Quenched,  at  that  gushing  fount,  thy  lone  heart's  thirst. 

Oh!  love  —  immortal  love!  not  all  in  vain 
The  young  heart  wastes  beneath  life's  weary  chain, 
Filled  with  thy  bright  ideal,  —  whose  excess 
Of  beauty  mocks  our  utter  loneliness!  — 
The  weary  bark  long  tossing  on  the  shore 
Shall  find  its  haven  when  the  storm  is  o'er; 
The  wandering  bee  its  hive;  —  the  bird  its  nest;  — 
And  the  lone  heart  of  love,  in  heaven  its  home  of  rest ! 
21* 


246  SARAH     HELENA     WHITMAN. 

HYMN. 

(WRITTEN    FOR    THE    CONSECRATION    OF    SWAN    POINT    CEMETERY.) 

IN  the  faith  of  him  who  saw 

The  Eternal  morning  rise, 
Through  the  open  gates  of  pearl,* 

On  the  hills  of  paradise;  — 

Saw  the  blessed  company 

Of  saints  that,  evermore, 
Wander  by  the  wells  of  life, 

Or  tread  the  heavenly  shore : 

Looking  to  the  promised  land, 
Saw  the  verdant  palms  that  wave 

In  the  calm  and  lustrous  air, 

Through  the  shadows  of  the  grave;—- 

In  his  name,  whose  deathless  love 

With  a  glory  all  divine 
Fill'd  the  garden-sepulchre, 

Far  away  in  Palestine, — 

We  would  consecrate  a  place 

Where  our  loved  ones  may  repose, 

When  the  storms  of  life  are  past 
And  the  weary  eyelids  close. 

Fairer  than  a  festal  hall 

Bloom  the  chambers  of  their  rest  — 
Sacred  to  the  tears  that  fall 

O'er  the  slumbers  of  the  blest  — 

Sacred  to  the  hopes  that  rise 

Heavenward  from  this  vale  of  tears, 

Soaring  with  unwearied  wing 
Through  "  the  illimitable  years." 

*  Revelations,  xxi.  24,  25. 


SARAH     HELENA     WHITMAN.  247 

Each  sweet  nursling  of  the  spring 
Here  shall  weep  its  fresh'ning  dews, 

Here  its  fragile  censer  swing, 
And  all  its  fragrant  soul  diffuse. 

The  lily,  in  her  white  symar, 

Fondly  o'er  the  turf  shall  wave, 
Asphodels  and  violets  star 

All  "the  green  that  folds  their  grave." 

Here  the  pale  anemone 

In  the  April  breeze  shall  nod, 
And  the  May-flower  weave  her  blooms 

Through  and  through  the  velvet  sod. 

Where  the  folding  branches  close 

In  a  verdant  coronal, 
Through  their  dim  and  dreaming  boughs 

Faintly  shall  the  sun-beams  fall. 

Memories,  mournful  yet  how  sweet! 

Here  shall  weave  their  mystic  spell  — 
Angels  tread  with  silent  feet 

Paths  where  love  and  sorrow  dwell. 

No  rude  sound  of  earth  shall  break 

The  dim  quiet  evermore, 
But  the  winds  and  waves  shall  chant 

A  requiem  on  the  lonely  shore. 

Flitting  through  the  slumb'rous  calm, 
The  humming-bird  shall  wander  by, 

Winnowing  the  floral  balm, 
From  cups  of  wreathed  ivory. 

The  bee  shall  wind  his  fairy  horn, 

Faintly  murmuring  on  the  ear, 
Sounds  that  seem  of  silence  born, 

Soothe  the  soul  of  sadness  here;  — 


248  CYNTHIA     TAGGART. 

Many  a  low  and  mystic  word, 
From  the  realm  of  shadows  sent, 

In  the  busy  throng  unheard, 
Makes  the  silence  eloquent. 

Words  of  sweetest  promise  spoken 
Only  where  the  dirge  is  sung, 

Where  the  "golden  bowl"  is  broken, 
And  the  "  silver  chord  "  unstrung. 

Faith  shall,  like  an  evening  star, 
Faintly  tremble  through  the  gloom, 

Hope  and  memory  shall  sit 
Like  Angels  by  the  tomb. 


CYNTHIA  TAGGART. 

THE  history  of  this  sorely  afflicted  and  deeply  interesting  person,  ex 
cites  in  us  the  most  solemn  sympathy,  admiration  and  wonder.  It  has 
been  narrated  with  touching  and  beautiful  simplicity  by  the  Rev.  James 
C.  Richmond,  in  a  little  book  called  "  The  Rhode-Island  Cottage,  or  A  Gift 
for  the  Children  of  Sorrow  ;"  and  from  this,  and  a  short  autobiography 
prefixed  to  Miss  Ta^art's  poems,  we  have  obtained  all  our  information 
concerning  her.  She  is  a  native  of  Rhode-Island.  Her  father,  William 
Taggart,  was  a  revolutionary  soldier,  and  took  a  very  active  part  in  the 
defence  of  his  country.  The  property  of  his  family  was  entirely  de 
stroyed  while  the  British  troops  were  on  the  Island,  but  after  the  war  he 
purchased  a  farm  about  six  miles  from  Newport,  built  a  cottage  on  the  side 
of  a  hill  near  the  sea-shore,  and  there  lived  in  quiet  seclusion  until  his 
death.  He  was  an  intelligent  and  pious  man,  and  cheerfully  bore  the  heavy 
domestic  afflictions  which  were  allotted  him.  Cynthia's  education  was 
but  trifling;  for  even  in  childhood  she  was  subject  to  debility  and  pain; 
and  could  attend  school  only  in  the  summer-time,  from  her  sixth  to  her 


CYNTHIA     TAGGART.  249 

ninth  year.  In  the  autobiography  alluded  to,  she  says:  "My  favourite 
amusements  were  invariably  found,  when  health  permitted,  in  viewing 
and  admiring  the  varied  and  soul-filling  works  of  the  great  Creator;  in 
listening  to  the  music  of  the  winds  and  waves  with  an  ineffable  and 
indefinable  delight;  in  reading  books  that  were  instructive  and  interest 
ing;  in  pursuing  without  interruption  a  pleasing  train  of  thought;  and 
in  the  elysian  scenes  of  fancy.  My  employments  were  chiefly  of  a 
domestic  kind,  and  my  inclinations  and  habits  those  of  activity  and 
industry.  I  had  never  the  most  remote  arid  vague  apprehension  that 
my  mental  capacities,  even  if  cultivated,  were  competent  for  productive 
efforts ;  with  few  exceptions,  it  was  not  till  several  years  after  the  com 
mencement  of  excruciating  illness,  that  my  thoughts  and  feelings  were 
committed  to  paper  in  the  form  of  poetry."  When  she  was  about  nine 
teen  years  old,  a  complication  of  chronic  diseases  began  to  afflict  her ; 
and  from  that  time  until  now,  a  period  of  twenty-six  years,  she  has  been 
confined  to  a  bed  of  agony,  without  one  gleaming  hope  of  ever  being 
relieved  from  her  intense  suffering,  until  the  angel  of  Death  sets  her 
free.  Her  case  has  baffled  all  medical  skill;  sleep  has  been  withheld 
to  an  almost  unparalleled  degree,  never  appearing,  unless  forced  by 
the  most  powerful  anodynes.  But  although  in  such  a  hopeless  state, 
although  she  never  loses  the  sense  of  pain,  she  yet  sometimes  forgets 
her  misery,  and  finds  relief  and  even  consolation  in  the  gift  of  God 
within  her  soul,— the  power  of  expressing  thought,  feeling,  and  imagi 
nation,  in  words  that  glow  with  true  poetic  fire.  During  the  restless 
hours  of  midnight  nearly  all  her  fervent  and  pathetic  strains  have  been 
composed,  and  were  written  down  afterwards,  by  her  father  or  her 
friends,  at  their  leisure.  She  has,  however,  a  more  refreshing  source  of 
relief  than  genius.  Religion  is  her  comforter  and  never-failing  sup 
port,  strengthening  her  to  be  calm  and  patient,  and  clearing  her  vision 
to  see  by  faith  the  land  that  is  afar  off—"  where  the  inhabitant  shall  no 
more  say,  I  am  sick." 

Her  father  and  mother  are  dead ;  but  she  still  lives  in  The  Rhode- 
Island  Cottage,  nursed  by  a  widowed  sister,  and  companioned  by  an 
other  sister,  who,  a  kindred  sufferer  in  resignation  and  intelligent  piety, 
has  been  many  years  a  helpless  invalid.  Her  poems,  which  were  first 
edited  in  1834,  are  about  to  be  re-published  in  New  York.  The  editor  of 
the  Providence  Literary  Journal  says,  "They  are  the  emanations  of  a 
mind  rich  in  endowment,  embodied  in  a  style  of  language,  the  correct 
ness  and  purity  of  which,  under  all  these  adverse  circumstances,  is 
scarcely  less  remarkable  than  the  thoughts  which  it  contains." 


250  CYNTHIA     TAGGART. 


INVOCATION     TO     HEALTH. 

0  HEALTH,  thy  succouring  aid  extend 
While  low,  with  bleeding  heart,  I  bend, 
And  on  thine  every  means  attend, 

And  sue  with  streaming  eyes; 
But  more  remote  thou  fliest  away, 
The  humbler  I  thine  influence  pray, 

And  expectation  dies. 

Twice  three  long  years  of  life  have  gone. 
Since  thy  loved  presence  was  withdrawn, 

And  I  to  grief  resigned ; 
Laid  on  the  couch  of  lingering  pain, 
Where  stern  disease's  torturing  chain 

Has  every  limb  confined. 

And  separate  from  the  household  band, 

Disconsolate  and  lone, 
With  no  sweet  converse's  social  charm 
One  pain  imperious  to  disarm, 

Or  quell  the  rising  moan; 

1  lie  in  hopeless  doom  to  grieve, 
While  no  kind  office  can  relieve, 
Nor  can  I  sustenance  receive 

But  from  another's  hand. 

While  anguish  veils  the  body  o'er, 
And  balmy  sleep  is  known  no  more, 
And  every  thought  that  thrills  the  brain 
Gives  frantic  energy  to  pain, 
And  the  cold  dewdrops  copious  drain 
Through  every  opening,  rending  pore. 

Health !    wilt  thou  not,  for  the  black  stream 
That  bears  keen  poison  through  the  veins, 


CYNTHIA     TAGGART.  251 

A  cordial  swift  prepare? 
Bring  back  their  own  bright  crimson  glow, 
And  the  true  circulating  flow, 

And  mitigate  despair  ? 

Once  more  my  pleadings  I  renew, 
And  with  my  parting  breath  I  sue, 

Goaded  by  potent  pain, 
By  all  the  pangs  of  wasting  life, 
By  gasping  nature's  chilling  strife, 

To  gain  one  lingering  view 
Of  thy  fair  aspect,  mildly  sweet, 
And  kiss  from  off  thine  airy  feet 

The  healing  drops  of  dew. 

O  bathe  my  burning  temples  now, 
And  cool  the  scorching  of  my  brow, 

And  light  the  rayless  eye; 
My  strength  revive  with  thine  own  might 
And  with  thy  footsteps  firm  and  light, 
O  bear  me  to  thy  radiant  height, 

Where,  soft  reposing,  lie 
Mild  peace,  and  happiness,  and  joy, 
And  Nature's  sweets  that  never  cloy, 
Unmixed  with  direful  pain's  alloy; 

Leave  me  not  thus  to  die! 


A  U  T  UMN. 

Now  Autumn  tints  the  scene 
With  sallow  hues  and  dim; 

And  o'er  the  sky 

Fast  hurrying,  fly 
Dark  sombre  clouds,  that  pour 
From  far  the  roaring  din ; 


252  CYNTHIA     TAGGART. 

The  rattling  rain  and  hail, 
With  the  deep  sounding  wail 
Of  wild  and  warring  melodies,  begin. 

The  wind  flies  fitful  through  the  forest  trees 
With  hollow  bowlings,  and  in  wrathful  mood; 
As  when  some  maniac  fierce,  disdaining  ease, 

Tears  with  convulsive  power, 

In  horrid  fury's  hour, 

His  locks  dishevelled;   and  a  chilling  moan 
Breathes  from  his  tortured  breast,  with  dread  and  dismal  tone. 

Thus,  the  impetuous  blast 

Doth  from  the  woodlands  tear 
The  leaves,  when  Summer's  reign  is  past-, 
And  sings  aloud  the  requiem  of  despair; 
Pours  ceaseless  the  reverberated  sigh, 
While  past  the  honours  of  the  forest  fly, 
Kiss  the  low  ground,  and  flutter,  shrink,  and  die. 


ODE     TO     THE     PO  PPY. 

THOUGH  varied  wreaths  of  myriad  hues, 

As  beams  of  mingling  light, 
Sparkle  replete  with  pearly  dews, 
Waving  their  tinted  leaves  profuse, 

To  captivate  the  sight; 
Though  fragrance,  sweet  exhaling,  blend 

With  the  soft  balmy  air. 
And  gentle  zephyrs,  wafting  wide 
Their  spicy  odours  bear; 
While  to  the  eve, 
Delightingly, 

Each  floweret  laughing  blooms, 
And  o'er  the  fields 
Prolific,  yields 


CYNTHIA     TAGGART.  253 

Its  increase  of  perfumes ; 
Yet  one  alone  o'er  all  the  plain, 

With  lingering  eye,  I  view; 
Hasty,  I  pass  the  brightest  bower, 
Heedless  of  each  attractive  flower, 

Its  brilliance  to  pursue. 

No  odours  sweet  proclaim  the  spot 

Where  its  soft  leaves  unfold; 
Nor  mingled  hues  of  beauty  bright 
Charm  and  allure  the  captive  sight, 

With  forms  and  tints  untold. 

One  simple  hue  the  plant  portrays 

Of  glowing  radiance  rare, 
Fresh  as  the  roseate  morn  displays, 

And  seeming  sweet  and  fair. 

But  closer  prest.  an  odorous  breath 

Repels  the  rover  gay ; 
And  from  her  hand,  with  eager  haste, 

'T  is  careless  thrown  away  ; 
And  thoughtless  that  in  evil  hour 
Disease  may  happiness  devour, 
And  hei  fair  form,  elastic  now, 
To  misery's  wand  may  helpless  bow. 

Then  Reason  leads  wan  Sorrow  forth 

To  seek  the  lonely  flower; 
And  blest  experience  kindly  proves 

Its  mitigating  power. 

Then,  its  bright  hue  the  sight  can  trace, 

The  brilliance  of  its  bloom; 
Though  misery  veil  the  weeping  eyes. 
Though  sorrow  choke  the  breath  with  sighs, 

And  life  deplore  its  doom. 

22 


254  CYNTHIA     TAGGART. 

This  magic  flower 

In  desperate  hour 
A  balsam  mild  shall  yield, 

When  the  sad,  sinking  heart 

Feels  every  aid  depart, 
And  every  gate  of  hope  for  ever  seal'd. 

Then  still  its  potent  charm 

Each  agony  disarm, 
And  its  all-healing  power  shall  respite  give. 

The  frantic  sufferer,  then, 

Convulsed  and  wild  with  pain, 
Shall  own  the  sovereign  remedy,  and  live. 

The  dews  of  slumber,  now, 

Rest  on  her  aching  brow, 
And  o'er  the  languid  lids  balsamic  fall; 

While  fainting  nature  hears, 

With  dissipated  fears, 
The  lowly  accents  of  soft  Somnus'  call. 

Then  will  affection  twine 

Around  this  kindly  flower; 
And  grateful  memory  keep 
How,  in  the  arms  of  sleep, 

Affliction  lost  its  power. 


ELIZABETH  J.  EAMES. 

MRS.  EAMES  is  a  native  of  New  York,  but  lived  till  her  seventeenth 
year  in  a  secluded  village  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson.  In  1836,  she 
was  married  to  Mr.  W.  S.  Eames,  and  removed  to  New  Hartford,  where 
she  now  resides.  She  was  a  regular  contributor  to  the  New-Yorker 
for  some  years  before  her  marriage  (under  the  signature  of  Stella}', 
and  since  that  period  her  writings  have  frequently  appeared  in  Graham's 
Magazine,  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  and  more  recently  still 
in  The  Columbian. 

Mrs.  Eames  is  a  student,  and  has  suffered  much  from  ill-health. 
Her  mind  is  of  a  serious,  generally  of  a  pensive  mood  ;  yet  not  despond 
ing  or  downcast — "  gazing  upon  the  ground  with  thoughts  that  dare  not 
glow."  Her  strains  exhibit  much  chastened  fervour,  an  uplifting  of  the 
soul  to  a  lofty  purpose,  and  a  steadfast  desire  to  attain  it,  even  though 
it  be  through  pain.  A  volume  of  her  poetry,  which  has  never  yet 
been  collected,  will  shortly  appear,  and  meet,  we  doubt  not,  the  kind 
welcome  it  deserves. 


"THERE    SHALL    BE    LIGHT.'' 

ONWARD  and  upward,  O  my  soul! 

Let  thy  endeavour  be  — 
Though  dark  the  cloud-mist  'bove  thee  roll, 

Light  shall  be  given  to  thee  ; 
Though  stormiest  waves  and  billows  rock 

Thy  human  bark  at  will, 
Thou  shalt  have  strength  to  bear  the  shock  — 

Be  Hope  thy  anchor  still. 

Alas!  thou  shrinkest  with  lonely  fear, 

Thou  tremblest  with  the  cold, 
Thy  inner  life  shows  pale  and  drear, 

And  languidly  unfold 

(255) 


256  ELIZABETH     J.     EAMES. 

The  feeble  wings  that  fain  would  find 

The  source  of  mental  day  ; 
Still  un revealed  the  path  —  and  blind 

Doth  the  immortal  stray! 

Oh,  pining  soul !  my  heart  is  faint  — 

My  hand  grows  timorous,  weak; 
Why,  why  that  half-reproachful  plaint  ? 

And  wherefore  dost  thou  speak 
So  mournful,  and  despondingly, 

Imploring  my  poor  aid  ? 
What  can  I  do,  dear  soul,  for  thee, 

Ere  I  am  lowlier  laid  ? 

Seest  thou  my  cheek  is  thin  and  pale, 

Mine  eyes  with  vigils  dim  ? 
Daily  my  strength  and  courage  fail, 

And  through  each  faltering  limb 
Quivers  the  arrow  of  disease; 

Still,  for  the  wasting  clay, 
Cometh  no  hours  of  calm  and  ease 

To  soften  its  decay! 

Oh !  not  in  such  imperfect  state 

Can  thy  full  wakening  be; 
Yet,  yet  my  soul  in  patience  wait  — 

The  morn  must  break  for  thee. 
Not  vainly  dost  thou  thirst  for  more 

Than  this  poor  world  can  give  — 
Where  gleam  the  waves  of  yon  bright  shore, 

There  shall  thou  drink  and  live. 

Freed  from  those  bonds  of  mortal  flesh, 
Thou  shalt  go  forth,  my  soul, 

Rejoicing  in  a  nobler  birth, 
With  powers  beyond  control. 


ELIZABETH     J.     EAMES.  257 

Then  onward !  'tis  not  always  night, 

Though  clouds  dim  now  thy  way : 
Oh!  soul  of  mine!  there  will  be 

To  show  the  perfect  day ! 


DIEM      PERDIDI. 

"  When  the  Emperor  Titus  remembered  at  night  that  he  had  done 
nothing  beneficial  during  the  day,  he  used  to  exclaim — '  1  have  lost  a 
day!  :' 

O  GREATLY  wise  !  thou  of  the  crown  and  rod, 

Robed  in  the  purple  majesty  of  kings  — 
Power  was  thine  own,  where'er  thy  footsteps  trod, 

Yet  didst  thou  mourn  if  Time  on  idle  wings 
Went  by  for  thee !     Deep  sunk  in  thought  wert  thou  — 

And  sadness  rested  on  thy  noble  brow, 
If,  when  the  dying  day  closed  o'er  thy  head, 

Thou  hadst  no  knowledge  gain'd  —  no  good  conferr'd  : 

u  Diem  Perdidi"   was  the  thought  that  stirr'd 
Thy  conscious  soul,  when  night  her  curtain  spread. 

Oh  Emperor,  greatly  wise !  could   we  so  deal 
With  misspent  hours,  and   win  thy  faith  sublime, 

We  should  not  be  (""mid  the  soul's  mute  appeal) 
Such  triders  with  the  solemn  trust  of  Time  ! 


CHARITY. 

ALL  stainless  in  the  holy  white 

Of  her  broad  mantle  —  lo!  the  maiden  cometh. 

Lip,  cheek  and  brow  serenely  bright 

With  that  calm  look  of  deep  delight. 

Beautiful, —  on  the  mountain   top  she  roameth. 

"The  soft  gray  of  the  brooding  dove" 
With  melting  radiance  in  her  eye  she  weareth ; 
22*  R 


258  ELIZABETH     J.     EAMES. 

Her  heart  is  full  of  trust  and  love; 
For  an  angel  mission  from  above, 
In  tranquil  beauty,  o'er  the  earth  she  beareth. 

The  music  of  Humanity 
Flows  from  her  tuneful  lips  in  sweetest  numbers  : 

Of  all  life's  pleasant  ministries  — 

Of  universal  harmonies  — 
She  sings :  no  care  her  mind  encumbers. 

Glad  tidings  doth  she  ever  sound ; 
Good  will  to  man  throughout  the  world  is  sending ; 

Blessings  and  gifts  she  scatters  round  ; 

Peace  to  her  name,  with  whom  is  found 
The  olive  branch,  in  holy  beauty  bending. 


LINES. 

"Of  making  many  books  there  is  no  end  ;  and  much  study  is  a  weari 
ness  of  the  flesh. " — Solomon. 


"  OF  making  many  books  there  is  no  end," 

Said  the  wise  monarch  of  the  olden  time ; 

Yet,  through  all  ages,  and  in  every  clime 
Doth  the  pale  seeker  o'er  his  studies  bend 
The  intellectual  Numen  to  obey, 

Eager  and  anxious  still.     Still  doth  he  toil 
(Making  the  night  familiar  as  the  day,) 

To  find  the  clew  to  loose  the  ravell'd  coil  — 
To  pierce  the  depth  of  things  that  hidden  lie 

The  oil  of  life  consumeth!  this  he  knoweth  — 
Yet  with  a  feverish  brow  and  streaming  eye, 

He  seeks  to  find; — and  patiently  bestovveth 
His  midnight  labourings  in  Wisdom's  mine, 
To  win  for  Earth  the  gems  that  midst  its  darkness  shine. 


J 


ELIZABETH     J.     EAMES.  259 

"  Much  study  is  a  weariness."     The  sage 

Who  gave  his  mind,  to  seek  and  search  until 

He  knew  all  Wisdom,  found  that  on  the  page 

Knowledge  and  grief  were  vow'd  companions  still : 

And  so  the  students  of  a  later  day 

Sit  down  among  the  records  of  old  time 

To  hold  high  commune  with  the  thoughts  sublime 

Of  minds  long  gone ;  so  they  too  pass  away, 

And  leave  us  what  ?  their  course,  to  toil  —  reflect  — 

To  feel  the  thorn  pierce  through  our  gatherM  flowers  — 
Still  midst  the  leaves  the  earth-worm  to  detect. 

And  this  is  Knowledge ; —  Wisdom  is  not  ours. 

Oh!  well  the  Preacher  bids  his  son  admonish'd  be, 
That  all  the  days  of  man's  short  life  are  Vanity ! 


ON     THE    PICTURE     OF     A     DEPARTED      POETES 

THIS  still,  clear,  radiant  face !  doth  it  resemble 

In  each  fair,  faultless  lineament  thine  own  ? 
Methinks  on  that  enchanting  lip  doth  tremble 

The  soul  that  breathes  thy  lyre's  melodious  tone. 
The  soul  of  music,  O !    ethereal  spirit, 

Fills  the  dream-haunted  sadness  of  thine  eyes; 
Sweet  Poetess  !  thou  surely  didst  inherit 

Thy  gifts  celestial  from  the  upper  skies. 

Clear  on  the  expansion  of  that  snow-white  forehead 

Sits  intellectual  beauty,  meekly  throned;  — 
Yet,  O!  the  expression  tells  that  thou  hast  sorrow'd, 

And  in  thy  yearning,  human  heart  atoned 
For  thy  soul's  lofty  gifts!  —  on  earth,  O,  never 

Was  the  deep  thirsting  of  thy  bosom  still'd !  — 
The  "  aching  void"  followed  thee  here  forever, 

The  Better  Land  thy  DREAM  OF  LOVE  fulfilled. 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 

THE  rural  and  beautiful  village  of  Cumberland,  about  twelve  miles 
from  Portland,  Maine,  is  the  birthplace  of  Elizabeth  Smith.  Her  family 
name  was  Prince.  Precocity  indeed  is  not  always  a  sign  of  genius,— 
for  sometimes  those  minds  which  are  ripe  the  soonest,  the  soonest  de 
cay,— yet  the  little  Elizabeth  (like  many  of  her  sister-poetesses)  was  a 
most  precocious  child.  She  used  to  improvise  as  soon  as  she  could  talk, 
but  finding  that  people  stared  at  her,  and  that  some  checked  her,  she 
grew  nervous  at  three  or  four,  and  repeated  her  rhymes  only  in  secret. 

She  began  to  write  from  the  time  she  could  imitate  printed  letters, 
and  continued  for  a  long  time  to  write  in  this  way.  Possessing  acute 
sensibilities,  a  quiet  thoughtfulness,  a  loving  disposition,  and  a  marked 
dislike  of  pretension,  the  attributes  of  a  true  poet  might  have 
been  discerned  in  her  at  a  very  early  age ;  and  perhaps  were,  by  that 
father  and  grandfather  at  whose  feet  she  loved  to  sit,  hearing  and  ask 
ing  them  questions,  when  other  children  were  out  at  play.  As  she  grew 
up  she  devoted  herself  to  study ;  choosing  philosophy  both  natural  and 
moral,  and  abstruse  subjects  which  required  much  close  and  steady 
thought,  on  which  to  feed  her  love  for  knowledge.  But  liberal  nature 
gave  her  a  very  strong  mind,  capable  of  bearing  intense  application,  and 
as  capacious  as  it  was  strong,  fit  apartment  for  the  wealthy  stores  that 
native  thought  and  foreign  learning  brought  in.  She  was  married  at 
sixteen  to  Seba  Smith,  Esq.,  of  Portland,  well-known  as  the  author  of 
the  humorous  Jack  Downing  Letters.  Since  her  marriage  Mrs.  Smith 
has  been  a  constant  contributor  to  the  magazines  of  the  day.  When  she 
first  wrote,  she  did  so  merely  from  the  impulse  within ;  afterwards,  ne 
cessity  lorded  it  over  her  genius ;  and  often,  when  her  social  and  wo 
manly  nature  would  have  been  content  with  the  pleasures  of  friendly 
intercourse,  this  stern  master,  she  dared  not  disobey,  has  driven  her  to 
her  pen,  to  coin  her  thoughts  of  purest  gold,  for  gold  "  of  a  baser  sort." 
About  eight  years  ago  she  left  Portland  to  reside  in  New  York ;  lately 
she  has  removed  to  Brooklyn. 

In  1842,  Mrs.  Smith  published  «  The  Sinless  Child,  and  other  Poems," 

(260) 


ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH.  26 1 

a  little  volume  which  has  been  much  praised  by  able  critics,  and  widely 
circulated.  The  Acorn,  one  of  her  most  imaginative  and  faultless  pro 
ductions,  is  contained  in  this  book.  We  give  the  whole  of  it :  for  though 
the  growing  oak  spreads  out  far  and  wide,  we  could  not  find  it  in  our 
hearts  to  cut  off  a  single  bough.  Within  a  short  time,  she  has  com 
pleted  a  tragedy,  called  The  Roman  Tribute,  which  is  to  be  acted  in 
the  coming  autumn ;  and  a  prose  romance,  now  in  the  press.  Many  of 
her  smaller  poems  indicate  genius  of  a  high  order ;  they  vary  in  their 
style  of  thought  and  expression,  however,  very  considerably.  Some 
times,  as  in  The  April  Rain,  there  is  a  fresh  simplicity  in  them,  as  if  a 
little  child  were  singing  out  her  pure  and  happy  feelings  in  musical 
rhyme ;  and  then  again,  as  in  the  two  sonnets  we  have  quoted,  there 
is  a  sublimity,  a  deep,  solemn  calmness  of  thought,  as  if  breathed  from 
the  heart  of  one  made  patient  by  experience,  and  wise  by  inward  suffer 
ing.  Some  of  Mrs.  Smith's  best  poems  and  essays  have  been  published 
under  the  name  of  Ernest  Helfenstein.  We  have  often  wondered  who 
this  quaint,  but  deep-souled,  mellow-voiced  writer  was;  our  delight 
and  surprise  were  equal,  on  finding,  not  long  ago,  that  the  original  and 
instructive  articles  we  had  read  from  the  pen  of  the  poet-philosopher, 
Ernest  Helfenstein,  sprang  from  the  fertile  mind  of  the  philosophical 
poetess,  Elizabeth  Oakes  Smith. 


THE      ACORN. 

AN  acorn  fell  from  an  old  oak  tree, 

And  lay  on  the  frosty  ground  — 
"  O,  what  shall  the  fate  of  the  acorn  be  !" 

Was  whispered  all  around, 
By  low-toned  voices,  chiming  sweet, 

Like  a  floweret's  bell  when  swung  — 
And  grasshopper  steeds  were  gathering  fleet, 

And  the  beetle's  hoofs  up-rung  — 

For  the  woodland  Fays  came  sweeping  past 

In  the  pale  autumnal  ray, 
Where  the  forest  leaves  were  falling  fast, 

And  the  acorn  quivering  lay ; 


262  ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH. 

They  came  to  tell  what  its  fate  should  be, 

Though  life  was  unreveaPd; 
For  life  is  holy  mystery, 

Where'er  it  is  conceal'd. 

They  came  with  gifts  that  should  life  bestow ; 

The  dew  and  the  living  air  — 
The  bane  that  should  work  its  deadly  wo  — 

Was  found  with  the  Fairies  there. 
In  the  gray  moss-cup  was  the  mildew  brought, 

And  the  worm  in  the  rose-leaf  roll'd, 
And  many  things  with  destruction  fraught, 

That  its  fate  were  quickly  told. 

But  it  heeded  not;  for  a  blessed  fate 

Was  the  acorn's  doom'd  to  be  — 
The  spirits  of  earth  should  its  birth-time  wait, 

And  watch  o'er  its  destiny. 
To  a  little  sprite  was  the  task  assigned 

To  bury  the  acorn  deep, 
Away  from  the  frost  and  searching  wind, 

When  they  through  the  forest  sweep. 

I  laughed  outright  at  the  small  thing's  toil, 

As  he  bow'd  beneath  the  spade, 
And  he  balanced  his  gossamer  wings  the  while 

To  look  in  the  pit  he  made. 
A  thimble's  depth  it  was  scarcely  deep, 

When  the  spade  aside  he  threw, 
And  roll'd  the  acorn  away  to  sleep 

In  the  hush  of  dropping  dew. 

The  spring-time  came  with  its  fresh,  warm  air, 
And  its  gush  of  woodland  song ; 

The  dew  came  down,  and  the  rain  was  there, 
And  the  sunshine  rested  long; 


ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH. 

Then  softly  the  black  earth  turn'd  aside, 

The  old  leaf  arching  o'er, 
And  up,  where  the  last  year's  leaf  was  dried, 
Came  the  acorn-shell  once  more. 

With  coiPd  stem,  and  a  pale  green  hue 

It  look'd  but  a  feeble  thing; 
Then  deeply  its  roots  abroad  it  threw, 

Its  strength  from  the  earth  to  bring. 
The  woodland  sprites  are  gathering  round, 

Rejoiced  that  the  task  is  done  — 
That  another  life  from  the  noisome  ground 

Is  up  to  the  pleasant  sun. 

The  young  child  pass'd  with  a  careless  tread, 

And  the  germ  had  well  nigh  crush'd, 
But  a  spider,  launch'd  on  her  airy  thread, 

The  cheek  of  the  stripling  brush'd. 
He  little  knew,  as  he  started  back, 

How  the  acorn's  fate  was  hung 
On  the  very  point  in  the  spider's  track 

Where  the  web  on  his  cheek  was  flung. 

The  autumn  came,  and  it  stood  alone, 

And  bow'd  as  the  wind  pass'd  by  — 
The  wind  that  utter'd  its  dirge-like  moan 

In  the  old  oak  sere  and  dry, 
And  the  hollow  branches  creak'd  and  sway'd 

But  they  bent  not  to  the  blast, 
For  the  stout  oak  tree,  where  centuries  play'd 

Was  sturdy  to  the  last. 

A  schoolboy  beheld  the  lithe  young  shoot, 
And  his  knife  was  instant  out, 

To  sever  the  stalk  from  the  spreading  root, 
And  scatter  the  buds  about; 


263 


264  ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH. 

To  peel  the  bark  in  curious  rings, 

And  many  a  notch  and  ray. 
To  beat  the  air  till  it  whizzing  sings, 

Then  idly  cast  away. 

His  hand  was  stay'd ;  he  knew  not  why  : 

'Twas  a  presence  breathed  around  — 
A  pleading  from  the  deep-blue  sky, 

And  up  from  the  teeming  ground. 
It  told  of  the  care  that  had  lavish'd  been 

In  sunshine  and  in  dew  — 
Of  the  many  things  that  had  wrought  a  screen 

When  peril  around  it  grew. 

It  told  of  the  oak  that  once  had  bow'd, 

As  feeble  a  thing  to  see ; 
But  now,  when  the  storm  was  raging  loud, 

It  wrestled  mightily. 
There's  a  deeper  thought  on  the  schoolboy's  brow, 

A  new  love  at  his  heart, 
And  he  ponders  much,  as  with  footsteps  slow 

He  turns  him  to  depart. 

Up  grew  the  twig,  with  a  vigour  bold, 

In  the  shade  of  the  parent  tree, 
And  the  old  oak  knew  that  his  doom  was  told, 

When  the  sapling  sprang  so  free. 
Then  the  fierce  winds  came,  and  they  raging  tore 

The  hollow  limbs  away ; 
And  the  damp  moss  crept  from  the  earthy  floor 

Round  the  trunk,  time-worn  and  gray. 

The  young  oak  grew,  and  proudly  grew, 
For  its  roots  were  deep  and  strong; 

And  a  shadow  broad  on  the  earth  it  threw, 
And  the  sunlight  linger'd  long 


ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH.  265 

On  its  glossy  leaf,  where  the  flickering  light 

Was  flung  to  the  evening  sky; 
And  the  wild  bird  came  to  its  airy  height, 

And  taught  her  young  to  fly. 

In  acorn-time  came  the  truant  boy, 

With  a  wild  and  eager  look, 
And  he  mark'd  the  tree  with  a  wondering  joy, 

As  the  wind  the  great  limbs  shook. 
He  look'd  where  the  moss  on  the  north  side  grew, 

The  gnarled  arms  outspread, 
The  solemn  shadow  the  huge  tree  threw, 

As  it  tower'd  above  his  head  : 

And  vague-like  fears  the  boy  surround, 

In  the  shadow  of  that  tree ; 
So  growing  up  from  the  darksome  ground, 

Like  a  giant  mystery. 
His  heart  beats  quick  to  the  squirrel's  tread 

On  the  withered  leaf  and  dry, 
And  he  lifts  not  up  his  awe-struck  head 

As  the  eddying  wind  sweeps  by. 

And  regally  the*  stout  oak  stood, 

In  its  vigour  and  its  pride ; 
A  monarch  own'd  in  the  solemn  wood, 

With  a  sceptre  spreading  wide  — 
No  more  in  the  wintry  blast  to  bow, 

Or  rock  in  the  summer  breeze ; 
But  draped  in  green,  or  star-like  snow, 

Reign  king  of  the  forest  trees. 

And  a  thousand  years  it  firmly  grew, 

And  a  thousand  blasts  defied  ; 
And,  mighty  in  strength,  its  broad  arms  threw 

A  shadow  dense  and  wide. 
23 


266  ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH. 

It  grew  where  the  rocks  were  bursting  out 
From  the  thin  and  heaving  soil  — 

Where  the  ocean's  roar,  and  the  sailor's  shout, 
Were  mingled  in  wild  turmoil. 

Where  the  far-off  sound  of  the  restless  deep 

Came  up  with  a  booming  swell; 
And  the  white  foam  dash'd  to  the  rocky  steep, 

But  it  loved  the  tumult  well. 
Then  its  huge  limbs  creak'd  in  the  midnight  air, 

And  joined  in  the  rude  uproar: 
For  it  loved  the  storm  and  the  lightning's  glare, 

And  the  sound  of  the  breaker's  roar. 

The  bleaching  bones  of  the  sea-bird's  prey 

Were  heap'd  on  the  rocks  below; 
And  the  bald-head  eagle,  fierce  and  gray, 

Look'd  off  from  its  topmost  bough. 
Where  its  shadow  lay  on  the  quiet  wave 

The  light  boat  often  swung, 
And  the  stout  ship,  saved  from  the  ocean-grave, 

Her  cable  round  it  flung. 

Change  came  to  the  mighty  things  of  earth  — 

Old  empires  pass'd  away; 
Of  the  generations  that  had  birth, 

O  Death !  where,  where  were  they  ? 
Yet  fresh  and  green  the  brave  oak  stood, 

Nor  dreamed  it  of  decay, 
Though  a  thousand  times  in  the  autumn  wood 

Its  leaves  on  the  pale  earth  lay. 

A  sound  comes  down  in  the  forest  trees, 

An  echoing  from  the  hill; 
It  floats  far  off  on  the  summer  breeze, 

And  the  shore  resounds  it  shrill. 


ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH.  267 

Lo!  the  monarch  tree  no  more  shall  stand 

Like  a  watch-tower  of  the  main  — 
The  strokes  fall  thick  from  the  woodman's  hand, 

And  its  falling  shakes  the  plain. 

The  stout  old  oak!  —  'Twas  a  worthy  tree, 

And  the  builder  marked  it  out; 
And  he  smiled  its  angled  limbs  to  see, 

As  he  measured  the  trunk  about. 
Already  to  him  was  a  gallant  bark 

Careering  the  rolling  deep, 
And  in  sunshine,  calm,  or  tempest  dark, 

Her  way  she  will  proudly  keep. 

The  chisel  clinks,  and  the  hammer  rings, 

And  the  merry  jest  goes  round ; 
While  he  who  longest  and  loudest  sings 

Is  the  stoutest  workman  found. 
With  jointed  rib,  and  trunnel'd  plank 

The  work  goes  gaily  on, 
And  light-spoke  oaths,  when  the  glass  they  drank, 

Are  heard  till  the  task  is  done. 

She  sits  on  the  stocks,  the  skeleton  ship, 

With  her  oaken  ribs  all  bare, 
And  the  child  looks  up  with  parted  lip, 

As  it  gathers  fuel  there  — 
With  brimless  hat,  the  bare-foot  boy 

Looks  round  with  strange  amaze, 
And  dreams  of  a  sailor's  life  of  joy 

Are  mingling  in  that  gaze. 

With  graceful  waist  and  carvings  brave 

The  trim  hull  waits  the  sea  — 
And  she  proudly  stoops  to  the  crested   wave, 

While  round  go  the  cheerings  three. 


ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH. 

Her  prow  swells  up  from  the  yeasty  deep, 
Where  it  plunged  in  foam  and  spray, 

And  the  glad  waves  gathering  round  her  sweep 
And  buoy  her  in  their  play. 

Thou  wert  nobly  rear'd,  O  heart  of  oak ! 

In  the  sound  of  the  ocean  roar, 
Where  the  surging  wave  o'er  the  rough  rock  broke 

And  bellow'd  along  the  shore  — 
And  how  wilt  thou  in  the  storm  rejoice, 

With  the  wind  through  spar  and  shroud, 
To  hear  a  sound  like  the  forest  voice, 

When  the  blast  was  raging  loud ! 

With  snow-white  sail,  and  streamer  gay, 

She  sits  like  an  ocean-sprite, 
Careering  on  in  her  trackless  way, 

Jn  sunshine  or  dark  midnight : 
Her  course  is  laid   with  fearless  skill, 

For  brave  hearts  man  the  helm ; 
And  the  joyous  winds  her  canvass  fill  — 

Shall  the  wave  the  stout  ship  whelm  ? 

On,  on  she  goes,  where  icebergs  roll, 

Like  floating  cities  by ; 
Where  meteors  flash  by  the  northern  pole, 

And  the  merry  dancers  fly ; 
Where  the  glittering  light  is  backward  flung 

From  icy  tower  and  dome, 
And  the  frozen  shrouds  are  gayly  hung 

With  gems  from  the  ocean  foam. 

On  the  Indian  sea  was  her  shadow  cast, 

As  it  lay  like  molten  gold, 
And  her  pendant  shroud  and  towering  mast 

Seem'd  twice  on  the  waters  told. 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH.          269 

The  idle  canvass  slowly  swung 

As  the  spicy  breeze  went  by, 
And  strange,  rare  music  around  her  rung 

From  the  palm-tree  growing  nigh. 

O,  gallant  ship,  thou  didst  bear  witli  thee 

The  gay  and  the  breaking  heart, 
And  weeping  eyes  look'd  out  to  see 

Thy  white-spread  sails  depart. 
And  when  the  rattling  casement  told 

Of  many  a  perill'd  ship, 
The  anxious  wife  her  babes  would  fold, 

And  pray  with  trembling  lip. 

The  petrel  wheel'd  in  her  stormy  flight', 

The  wind  piped  shrill  and  high ; 
On  the  topmast  sat  a  pale  blue  light, 

That  flicker'd  not  to  the  eye : 
The  black  cloud  came  like  a  banner  down, 

And  down  came  the  shrieking  blast; 
The  quivering  ship  on  her  beams  is  thrown, 

And  gone  are  helm  and  mast. 

Helmless,  but  on  before  the  gale, 

She  ploughs  the  deep-trough M  wave  : 
A  gurgling  sound  —  a  phrenzied  wail  — 

And  the  ship  hath  found  a  grave. 
And  thus  is  the  fate  of  the  acorn  told, 

That  fell  from  the  old  oak  tree, 
And  the  woodland  Fays  in  the  frosty  mould 

Preserved  for  its  destiny. 

CHARITY,     IN     DESPAIR     OF     JUSTICE. 

OUT-WEARIED  with  the  littleness  and  spite, 
The  falsehood  and  the  treachery  of  men, 
I  cried,  give  me  but  justice,  thinking  then 
I  meekly  craved  a  common  boon  which  might 
23* 


270  ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH. 

Most  easily  be  granted;    soon  the  light 

Of  deeper  truth  grew  on  my  wondering  ken, 

(Escaped  baneful  damps  of  stagnant  fen,) 

And  then  I  saw,  that  in  my  pride  bedight 

I  claim'd  from  erring  man  the  gift  of  Heaven  — 

God's  own  great  vested  right;   and  I  grew  calm, 

With  folded  hands  like  stone  to  patience  given, 

And  pityings  of  pure  love-distilling  balm ;  — 

Arid  now  I  wait  in  quiet  trust  to  be 

All  known  to  God,  —  and  ask  of  men,  sweet  Charity. 

THE     GREAT     AIM. 

EARTH  beareth  many  pangs  of  guilt  and  wrong; 

Hunger,  and  chains,  and  nakedness,  all  cry 

From  out  the  ground  to  Him,  whose  searching  eye 

Sees  blood  like  slinking  serpents  steal  along 

The  dusty  way,  rank  grass,  and  flowers  among. 

His  the  dread  voice  —  "Where  is  thy  brother?"    Why 

Sit  we  here  weaving  our  common  griefs  to  song, 

While  that  eternal  call,  forth  bids  us  fly 

From  self,  and  wake  to  human  good  ?     The  near, 

The  humble,  it  may  be,  yet  —  God-appointed! 

If  greatly  girded,  cast  aside  thy  fear 

Jn  solemn  trust,  thou  mission'd  and  anointed  ! 

Oh  !   glorious  task !   made  free  from  petty  strife, 

Thy  Truth  becomes  an  Act,  —  thy  Aspiration  —  Life.! 

ANGELS. 

WITH  downy  pinion  they  enfold 

The  heart  surcharged  with  woe, 
And  fan  with  balmy  wing  the  eye, 

Whence  floods  of  sorrow  flow ; 
They  bear  in  golden  censers  up 

That  sacred  gift,  a  tear, 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH.         271 

By  which  is  register'd  the  griefs 
Hearts  may  have  sufferM  here. 

No  inward  pang,  no  yearning  love 

Is  lost  to  human  hearts ; 
No  anguish  that  the  spirit  feels 

When  bright-wing'd  hope  departs: 
Though  in  the  mystery  of  life 

Discordant  powers  prevail, 
That  life  itself  be  weariness, 

And  sympathy  may  fail ; 

Yet  all  becomes  a  discipline 

To  lure  us  to  the  sky  ; 
And  angels  bear  the  good  it  brings 

With  fostering  care  on  high. 
Though  others,  weary  at  the  watch, 

May  sink  to  toil-spent  sleep, 
And  we  are  left  in  solitude 

And  agony  to  weep  — 

Yet  THEY  with  ministering  zeal 

The  cup  of  healing  bring, 
And  bear  our  love  and  gratitude 

Away  on  heavenly  wing. 
And  thus  the  inner  life  is  wrought, 

The  blending  earth  and  heaven — • 
The  love  more  earnest  in  its  glow, 

Where  much  has  been  forgiven. 


UNPROFITABLE      SERVANTS. 

VAIN  we  number  every  duty, 

Number  all  our  prayers  and  tears, 

Still  the  spirit  lacketh  beauty, 
Still  it  droops  with  many  fears. 


272  ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH. 

Soul  of  Love,  O  boundless  Giver, 
Who  didst  all  thyself  impart, 

And  thy  blood,  a  flowing  river, 
Told  how  large  the  loving  heart; 

Now  we  see  how  poor  the  offering 
We  have  on  thine  altar  cast, 

And  we  bless  thee  for  the  suffering 
Which  hath  taught  us  love  at  last. 

We  may  feel  an  inward  gladness 
For  the  truth  and  goodness  won, 

But  far  deeper  is  the  sadness 
For  the  good  we  leave  undone. 


STANZAS. 

O  GOD  !  that  we  should  live,  the  dull  pulse  beat, 
When  all  that  should  be  life  is  cold  and  sere ! 
When  thought,  which  angel-like  is  high  and  fleet, 

Is  crushM  to  earth,  what  doth  the  spirit  here ! 
And  yet,  and  yet  I  would  not  feebly  shrink 
From  this  dread  cup  of  suffering,  —  let  me  drink. 

For  in  this  darkest  hour  there  rometh  yet 

A  soothing  ministry,  unseen  but  felt ; 
An  inward  prompting  —  Thou  wilt  not  forget! 

And  tears  gush  forth, — the  eyes  that  would  not  melt, 
TrainM  in  the  school  of  grief,  at  thought  of  Thee 
Pour  forth  their  pent-up  fountains,  fast  and  free. 

Life-Giver !  who  hast  planted  in  the  soul 

This  seed-time  dread  of  hopes  too  hijjh  for  earth, 
Emotions,  yearnings,  time  may  not  control, 

In  heaven  alone.  Oh!  hath  the  harvest  birth? 
Oh  wherefore  cloth  the  heart,  deluded  still, 
Its  broken  urn  from  earth's  dark  fountains  fill? 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH.          273 

Not  at  the  eory  wheel,  the  fiery  stake; 

Not  where  the  rack  gives  forth  the  lingering  breath — 
Not  there  alone  do  martyred  spirits  break, 

Not  there  alone  dost  thou  find  such,  O  Death! 
Another  test;  crushed  by  a  hidden  weight, 
There  are  who  martvrs  live  to  their  dark  fate. 


STRENGTH     FROM     THE      HILLS. 

COME  up  unto  the  hills!     Thy  strength  is  there; 

Oh!  thou  hast  tarried  long, 
Too  loner  amid  the  bowers  and  blossoms  fair, 

With  notes  of  summer  song ! 
Why  dost  thou  tarry  here?     What  though  the  bird 

Pipes  matin  in  the  vale  — 
The  plough-boy  whistles  to  the  loitering  herd 

As  the  red  daylights  fail  ? 

Yet  come  unto  the  hills  —  the  old  stronjj  hills, 

And  leave  the  stagnant  plain ; 
Come  to  the  gushing  of  the  new-born  rills. 

As  sing  they  to  the  main. 
And  thou  shah  dwell  with  denizens  of  light :  — 

The  eagle  shall  be  there. 
With  tireless  wing  aslant  the  cloud  of  ni*ht. 

Amid  the  lightning's  glare. 

Come  up  unto  the  hills !     The  shatter'd  oak 

There  clings  unto  the  rock. 
With  arms  outstretchM  as  ?t  would  the  storm  invoke. 

And  dare  again  the  shock. 
Come  where  no  fear  is  known,  the  sea-bird's  nest 

On  the  old  hemlock  swing?. 
There  thou  shah  feel  the  gladness  of  unrest, 

And  mount  upon  thy  wings, 
s 


274  ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH. 

Come  up  unto  the  hills!     The  men  of  old, 

They  of  undaunted  will, 
Grew  jubilant  of  heart,  and  strong  and  bold, 

On  the  enduring  hill, — 
Where  come  the  soundings  of  the  sea  afar 

Borne  inward  to  the  ear, 
And  nearer  grow  the  moon,  and  midnight  star, 

And  God  himself  more  near! 


NI  GHT. 

"Some  who  had  early  mandates  to  depart, 
Yet  are  allowed  to  steal  my  path  athwart." — Wordsworth. 

THRICE  welcome,  solemn,  thoughtful  Night, 

With  the  cool  and  shadowy  wing; 
For  visions,  beautiful  and  bright, 

Thou  dost  to  fancy  bring  — 
And  then  the  mental  eye  I  turn. 

Thy  kingdom,  soul,  to  view, 
For  higher  progress  eager  burn, 

And  onward  strength  renew. 

I  love  thy  dim,  majestic  car, 

With  no  moon  lighting  by, 
When  still  and  hush'd  is  each  pale  star, 

And  the  heavens  look  deep  and  high  — 
And  o'er  me  seem  thy  wings  to  brood 

With  a  protecting  love, 
And  I  nestle  in  thy  solitude, 

Like  a  stricken,  wearied  dove. 

I  bless  thee  for  each  hallow'd  thought, 
Which  thou,  oh!  Night,  dost  bring  — 

Thy  quiet,  with  high  teachings  fraught, 
While  round  me  seems  to  ring 


ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH.  275 

The  music  of  the  better  land, 

And  gentle  watch  to  keep, 
The  presence  of  a  guardian  band 

Is  round  me  while  I  sleep. 


And  soothingly,  oh !  Night,  dost  thou 

Departed  ones  restore  — 
I  see  each  fair  and  peaceful  brow 

With  their  loving  looks  once  more, 
Alas,  the  loved  and  gentle  ones, 

They  pass  from  earth  away, 
And  pleasantly  we  hear  their  tones, 

When  the  midnight  shadows  play. 

We  feel  their  holy  presence  near, 

Their  gentle  pressure  feel, 
Their  words  of  whisper'd  comfort  hear, 

And  angel-like  appeal; 
And  every  struggle  for  the  right 

They  smilingly  approve, 
And  arm  us  doubly  for  the  fight, 

With  spirit-faith  and  love. 


Oh !  holy  Night,  thou  bring'st  to  me 

Bright  visions  of  the  past, 
And  pleasant  dreams  are  born  of  thee, 

And  from  thy  pinions  cast. 
No  fancies  dark,  no  terrors  wild, 

Come  hovering  round  my  bed. 
But  peaceful  as  a  wearied  child 

I  rest  my  aching  head. 


276  ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH 


THE      RECALL,     OR     SOUL     MELODY. 

NOR  dulcimer  nor  harp  shall  breathe 

Their  melody  for  me; 
Within  my  secret  soul  be  wrought 

A  holier  minstrelsy ! 
Descend  into  thy  depths,  oh  soul 
And  every  sense  in  me  control. 

Thou  hast  no  voice  for  outward  mirth, 

Whose  purer  strains  arise 
From  those  that  steal  from  crystal  gates, 

The  hymnings  of  the  skies ; 
And  well  may  earth's  cold  jarrings  cease. 
When  such  have  soothed  thee  unto  peace. 

Within  thy  secret  chamber  rest, 

And  back  each  sense  recall, 
That  seeketh  'mid  the  tranquil  stars 

Where  melody  shall  fall ; 
Call  home  the  wanderer  from  the  vale, 
From  mountain  and  the  moonlight  pale. 

Within  the  leafy  wood,  the  sound 

Of  dropping  rain  may  ring, 
Which,  rolling  from  the  trembling  leaf, 

Falls  on  the  sparrow's  wing; 
And  music  round  the  waking  flower 
May  breathe  in  every  star-lit  bower : 

Yet,  come  away!  nor  stay  to  hear 

The  breathings  of  a  voice 
Whose  subtle  tones  awake  a  thrill 

To  make  thee  to  rejoice, 
And  vibrate  on  the  listening  ear, 
Too  deep,  too  earnest,  ah,  too  dear. 


ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH  277 

Yes,  come  away,  and  inward  turn 

Each  thought  and  every  sense, 
For  sorrow  lingers  from  without, 

Thou  canst  not  charm  it  thence; 
But  all  attuned  the  soul  may  be, 
Unto  a  deathless  melody. 


THE     APRIL     RAIN. 

THE  April  rain!  the  April  rain! 

I  hear  the  pleasant  sound, 
Now  soft  and  still,  like  gentle  dew, 

Now  drenching  all  the  ground. 
Pray  tell  me  why  an  April  shower 

Is  pleasanter  to  see 
Than  falling  drops  of  other  rain  ? 

I'm  sure  it  is  to  me. 

I  wonder  if  'tis  really  so, 

Or  only  Hope,  the  while, 
That  tells  of  swelling  buds  and  flowers, 

And  Summer's  coming  smile  : 
Whate'er  it  is,  the  April  shower 

Makes  me  a  child  again ; 
1  feel  a  rush  of  youthful  blood, 

As  falls  the  April  rain. 

And  sure,  were  I  a  little  bulb, 

Within  the  darksome  ground, 
I  should  love  to  hear  the  April  rain 

So  softly  falling  round ; 
Or  any  tiny  flower  were  I, 

By  Nature  swaddled  up, 
How  pleasantly  the  April  shower 

Would  bathe  my  hidden  cup! 
34 


278  ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH. 

The  small  brown  seed  that  rattled  down 

On  the  cold  autumnal  earth, 
Is  bursting  from  its  cerements  forth, 

Rejoicing  in  its  birth; 
The  slender  spears  of  pale  green  grass 

Are  smiling  in  the  light; 
The  clover  opes  its  folded  leaves, 

As  though  it  felt  delight. 

The  robin  sings  on  the  leafless  tree, 

And  upward  turns  his  eye, 
As  if  he  loved  to  see  the  drops 

Come  filtering  down  the  sky; 
No  doubt  he  longs  the  bright  green  leaves 

About  his  home  to  see, 
And  feel  the  swaying  summer  winds 

Play  in  the  full-robed  tree. 

The  cottage  door  is  open  wide, 

And  cheerful  sounds  are  heard ; 
The  young  girl  sings  at  the  merry  wheel 

A  song  like  the  wildwood  bird  ; 
'    The  creeping  child  by  the  old  worn  sill 

Peers  out  with  winking  eye, 
And  his  ringlets  parts  with  his  chubby  hand, 

As  the  drops  come  spattering  by. 

With  bounding  heart  beneath  the  sky 

The  truant  boy  is  out, 
And  hoop  and  ball  are  darting  by, 

With  many  a  merry  shout; 
Ay,  shout  away,  ye  joyous  throng! 

For  yours  is  the  April  day ; 
I  love  to  see  your  spirits  dance, 

In  your  pure  and  healthful  play. 


ELIZABETH     OAKES     SMITH. 


279 


LOVE     DEAD 


The  lady  sent  him  an  image  of  Cupid,  one  wing  veiling  his  face.  He 
was  pleased  thereat,  thinking  it  to  be -Love  sleeping,  and  betokened  the 
tenderness  of  the  sentiment.  He  looked  again  and  saw  it  was  Love 
dead  and  laid  upon  his  bier. 

THIS  morn  with  trembling  I  awoke, 

Just  as  the  dawn  my  slumber  broke: 

Flapping  came  a  heavy  wing,  sounding  pinions  o'er  my  head, 
Beating  down  the  blessed  air  with  a  weight  of  chilling  dread  — 

Felt  I  then  the  presence  of  a  doom 

That  an  Evil  occupied  the  room  — 

And  I  dared  not  round  the  bower, 

Chilly  in  the  grayish  morning, 

Dared  not  face  the  evil  power, 

With  its  voice  of  inward  warning. 


Vain  with  weakness  we  may  palter  — 

Vainly  may  the  fond  heart  falter, 

Came  there  upon  my  soul,  dropping  down  like  leaden  weight, 
Burning  pang  or  freezing  pang,  which  I  know  not  'twas  so  great; 

Life  hath  its  moments  black  unnumbered, 

I  knew  not  if  mine  eyes  had  slumbered, 

Yet  I  little  thought  such  pain 

Ever  to  have  known  again  — 

Love  dies,  too,  when  Faith  is  dead, 

Yesternight  Faith  perished. 

I  knew  that  Love  could  never  change  — 
That  Love  should  die  seems  yet  more  strange  — 
Lifting  up  the  downy  veil,  screening  Love  within  my  heart, 
Beating  there  as  beat  my  pulse,  moving  like  myself  a  part  — 
I  had  kept  him  cherished  there  so  deep, 
Heart-rocked  kept  him  in  his  balmy  sleep, 


280  ELIZABETH     OAKES      SMITH. 

That  till  now  I  never  knew 
How  his  fibres  round  me  grew  — 
Could  not  know  how  deep  the  sorrow 
Where  Hope  bringeth  no  to-morrow. 

I  struggled,  knowing  we  must  part, 

I  grieved  to  lift  him  from  my  heart, 
Grieving    much    and    struggling    much,  forth    I    brought    him 

sorrowing  — 
Drooping  hung  his  fainting  head  —  all  adown  his  dainty  wing, 

Shrieked  I  with  a  wild  and  dark  surprise  — 

For  I  saw  the  marble  in  Love's  eyes  — 

Yet  I  hoped  his  soul  would  wait 

As  he  oft  had  waited  there  — 

Hovering  though  at  Heaven's  gate  — 

Could  he  leave  me  to  despair! 

Unfolded  they  the  crystal  door, 

Where  Love  shall  languish  never  more  — 
Weeping  Love  thy  days  are  o'er.     Lo !  I  lay  thee  on  thy  bier, 
Wiping  thus  from  thy  dead  cheek  every  vestige  of  a  tear! 

Love  has  perished  —  hist,  hist  how  they  tell, 

Beating  pulse  of  mine,  his  funeral  knell! 

Love  is  dead,  ay  dead  and  gone, 

Why  should   1  be  living  on;  — 

Why  be  in  this  chamber  sitting, 

With  but  phantoms  round  me  flitting! 


MARY  E.  BROOKS, 

FORMERLY  Mary  Elizabeth  Aikin,  was  born  at  Poughkeepsie,  Dutchess 
County,  New  York,  and  educated  at  Troy,  under  the  care  of  Mrs.  Wil- 
lard.  When  quite  young,  she  wrote  for  the  New  York  periodicals, 
under  the  signature  of  Norna.  In  1829,  her  longest  poem  —  The 
Rivals  of  ffEste — was  published,  with  several  others,  in  a  volume  con 
taining  the  poetical  effusions  of  her  husband,  the  late  James  G.  Brooks. 
She  possesses  many  elegant  accomplishments,  and  a  thorough  acquaint 
ance  with  the  modern  languages.  Her  poetical  talent  is  seldom  called 
into  exercise  now;  but  the  verses  she  has  written  display  a  lively 
fancy  and  refined  taste.  The  "  Hebrew  melodies"  in  the  volume  above 
named,  are  sweet  and  expressive,  and  gracefully  executed. 


OH,     WEEP     NOT     FOR     THE     DEAD. 
JEREMIAH,     XXli.     10. 

OH,  weep  not  for  the  dead ! 
Rather,  oh  rather  give  the  tear 
To  those  that  darkly  linger  here, 

When  all  besides  are  fled ; 
Weep  for  the  spirit  withering 
In  its  cold  cheerless  sorrowing, 
Weep  for  the  young  and  lovely  one 
That  ruin  darkly  revels  on  ; 

But  never  be  a  tear-drop  shed 

For  them,  the  pure  enfranchised  dead. 

Oh,  weep  not  for  the  dead  . 
No  more  for  them  the  blighting  chill, 
The  thousand  shades  of  earthly  ill, 

The  thousand  thorns  we  tread ; 
Weep  for  the  life-charm  early  flown, 
The  spirit  broken,  bleeding,  lone ; 
*  (281) 


282  MARY     E.     BROOKS. 

Weep  for  the  death  pangs  of  the  heart, 
Ere  being  from  the  bosom  part  ; 

But  never  be  a  tear-drop  given, 

To  those  that  rest  in  yon  blue  heaven. 


THE     LAMENT     OF     JUDAH. 

J  EREMI  AH,    iv.     30. 

IN  vain  the  crimson  garment  now, 

It  wraps  a  feeble  limb  ; 
In  vain  the  jewel  decks  the  brow, 

The  eye  beneath  is  dim : 
For  days  gone  by,  for  days  to  come, 
In  weary  thoughts  of  blasted  home, 
Does  Judah's  heart,  and  Judah's  eye, 
Darken  amid  your  revelry. 

Ye  have  your  homes,  your  hearths;  your  sires 

Sleep  'neath  the  garden  tree; 
Where  are  our  hearths,  our  altar  fires, 

And  what,  oh  what  are  we  ? 
'Tis  our's  to  pour  the  tear-drop  fast, 
Above  the  bright  and  buried  past; 
For  this  does  Judah's  heart  and  eye 
Turn  sickening  from  your  revelry ! 

THE     SONG     OF     CAPTIVE     ISRAEL. 
PSALM   cxxxvii. 

COME,  sweep  the  harp!  one  thrilling  rush 
Of  all  that  warm'd  its  chords  to  song, 

And  then  the  strains  for  ever  hush 

That  oft  have  breathed  its  wires  along ! 

The  ray  is  quench'd  that  lit  our  mirth, 

The  shrine  is  gone  that  claim'd  the  prayer; 


MARY     E.     BROOKS. 

And  exiles  o'er  the  distant  earth, 
How  can  we  wake  the  carol  there. 

One  sigh,  my  harp!  and  then  to  sleep, 

For  all  that  loved  thy  song  have  flown; 
Why  should'st  thou  lonely  vigils  keep, 

Forsaken,  broken,  and  alone  ? 
Let  this  sad  murmur  be  thy  last, 

Nor  e'er  again  in  music  swell; 
Thine  hours  of  joyousness  are  past, 

And  thus  we  sever:  fare  thee  well! 


DREAM     OF      LIFE. 

I  HEARD  the  music  of  the  wave, 

As  it  rippled  to  the  shore; 
And  saw  the  willow  branches  lave, 

As  light  winds  swept  them  o'er; 
The  music  of  the  golden  bow, 

That  did  the  torrent  span; 
But  I  heard  a  sweeter  music  flow 

From  the  youthful  heart  of  man. 

The  wave  rushed  on ;  the  hues  of  heaven 

Fainter  and  fainter  grew  ; 
And  deeper  melodies  were  given 

As  swift  the  changes  flew : 
Then  came  a  shadow  on  my  sight, 

The  golden  bow  was  dim : 
And  he  that  laugh'd  beneath  its  light, 

What  was  the  change  to  him? 

I  saw  him  not;  only  a  throng 
Like  the  swell  of  troubled  ocean, 

Rising,  sinking,  swept  along 

In  the  tempest's  wild  commotion : 


283 


284 


MARY     E.     BROOKS. 

Sleeping,  dreaming,  waking  then, 

Chains  to  link  or  sever ; 
Turning  to  the  dream  again, 

Fain  to  clasp  it  ever. 

There  was  a  rush  upon  my  brain, 

A  darkness  on  mine  eye  ; 
And  when   I  turn'd  to  gaze  again 

The  mingled  forms  were  nigh ; 
In  shadowy  mass  a  mighty  hall 

Rose  on  the  h'tful  scene  ; 
Flowers,  music,  gems  were  flung  o'er  all, 

Not  such  as  once  had  been. 

Then  in  its  mist,  far,  far  away, 

A  phantom  seemed  to  be; 
The  something  of  a  gone-by  day, 

But  oh,  how  changed  was  he  ! 
He  rose  beside  the  festal  board, 

Where  sat  the  merry  throng; 
And  as  the  purple  juice  he  pour'd 

Thus  woke  his  wassail  song  — 

SONG. 

COME,  while  with  wine  the  goblets  flow, 
For  wine  they  say  has  power  to  bless ; 

And  flowers  too  —  not  roses,  no! 
Bring  poppies,  bring  forgetfulness ! 

A  Lethe  for  departed  bliss, 

And  each  too  well  remember'd  scene; 
Earth  has  no  sweeter  draught  than  this, 

Which  drowns  the  thought  of  what  has  been. 

Here's  to  the  heart's  cold  iciness, 

Which  cannot  smile,  but  will  not  sigh ; 


LUCRETIA     AND     MARGARET     DAVIDSON.  285 

If  wine  can  bring  a  chill  like  this, 
Come,  fill  for  me  the  goblet  high. 


Come,  and  the  cold,  the  false,  the  dead, 
Shall  never  cross  our  revelry; 

We  '11  kiss  the  wine-cup  sparkling  red, 
And  snap  the  chain  of  memory. 


LUCRETIA  AND  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


IT  would  be  wrong,  merely  for  the  sake  of  chronological  order,  to 
separate  these  sweet  sisters,  who,  though  not  twins  by  birth,  were  twins 
in  thought,  feeling,  loveliness,  and  purity.  We  will  sketch  them  to 
gether,  therefore,  while  their  devoted  mother  and  excellent  father  shall 
stand  at  their  head. 

Mrs.  Davidson  was  a  daughter  of  Dr.  Burnet  Miller,  a  respectable  phy 
sician  in  the  city  of  New  York,  where  she  was  born  on  the  27th  of  June, 
1787.  Her  mother  was  early  left  a  widow,  and  removed  to  Dutchess 
County,  where,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  this  daughter  was  married  to  Dr. 
Davidson.  The  greater  part  of  her  married  life  was  spent  at  Plattsburg, 
(on  Lake  Champlain,)  where  all  her  children  were  born,  ten  in  number — 
eight  of  whom  passed  before  her  into  heaven.  She  resided  in  Plattsburg 
at  the  time  of  the  battle,  August,  1814.  The  fearful  events  of  that 
season,  and  her  own  escapes  and  adventures,  have  been  narrated  by  both 
Mrs.  Davidson  and  Margaret,  in  a  fictitious  garb.  She  never  could 
speak  of  them  without  great  excitement ;  and  invariably  wept  at  the 
sound  of  martial  music.  An  intimate  friend  writing  of  her,  says  — 


286     LUCRETIA     AND     MARGARET     DAVIDSON. 

"  Mrs.  Davidson's  appearance  and  manner  when  talking  enthusiastical 
ly,  as  she  always  did  on  a  favourite  subject,  could  never  be  forgotten. 
The  traces  of  early  beauty  were  still  evident  in  her  large  dark  eyes  and 
her  exquisite  complexion ;  but  the  great  charm  of  her  countenance  was 
in  its  mingled  expression  of  intelligence  and  sensibility,  varying  not  un- 
frequently  from  deep  sadness  to  a  playful  vivacity  of  which  you  would 
not  at  first  suppose  her  capable."  She  possessed  great  elasticity  of  spirit 
and  vigour  of  mind,  which  were  not  at  all  impaired  by  the  constant  pain 
and  suffering  she  endured.  During  the  last  few  years  of  her  life,  she 
resided  alternately  at  New  York,  Ballston,  and  Saratoga  Springs.  At 
the  latter  place  she  died,  on  the  27th  of  June,  1844.  She  had  long  been 
thought  a  victim  to  consumption,  but  the  fearful  and  agonizing  disease 
which  terminated  her  life  was  a  cancer  in  the  face.  A  year  before  her 
death,  a  volume,  entitled  Selections  from  the  Writings  of  Mrs.  Marga 
ret  M.  Davidson,  was  published,  with  a  short  preface  from  her  distin 
guished  friend,  Miss  Sedgwick.  Her  poems,  however,  although  they 
display  that  tenderness  of  feeling  and  romantic  disposition  which  charac 
terized  her  so  strongly,  are  too  inferior  to  her  daughter's  to  be  quoted 
with  any  advantage. 

Dr.  Davidson  was  a  man  of  extensive  reading,  and  possessed  a  taste 
for  natural  science.  His  moral  character,  however,  more  than  his 
intellectual,  renders  him  worthy  of  notice.  "He  was  one  of  the  most 
guileless  and  pure-minded  men  I  ever  knew,"  writes  the  friend  we  have 
before  quoted.  "He  was  entirely  unpretending  in  his  manners,  and 
always  exhibited  a  degree  of  affectionate  devotedness  to  his  wife,  un 
usual  and  touching.  His  piety  was  simple,  confiding,  and  unobtrusive  ; 
and  his  conduct  in  every  situation  unreproachable."  He  died  about  a 
year  ago. 

Such  were  the  parents  of  the  inspired  poet-children,  Lucretia  and 
Margaret  Davidson. 

Lucretia  Maria  was  born  on  the  27th  of  September,  180S,  and  was 
distinguished  almost  from  her  birth  by  an  extraordinary  development 
of  the  imaginative  and  sensitive  faculties.  When  she  was  four  years 
old  she  went  to  the  Plattsburg  Academy,  and  was  taught  to  read,  and 
form  letters  in  sand,  after  the  Lancasterian  method.  She  began  to  turn 
her  infant  thoughts  into  measured  strains  before  she  had  learned  to 
write ;  and  devoting  herself  with  tireless  attention  to  her  studies  both  at 
home  and  at  school,  she  soon  attained  a  wonderful  amount  of  knowledge. 
It  was  only  in  her  intellectual  character  that  she  was  thus  premature ; 


LUCRETIA     AND     MARGARET     DAVIDSON.     287 

in  her  innocence,  simplicity,  playfulness,  and  modesty,  she  was  a  perfect 
child.  Her  conscientiousness  and  dutifulness  were  remarkably  promi 
nent;  as  they  were  also  with  Margaret.  Her  health,  always  very 
feeble,  began  to  decline  in  1823,  when  she  was  taken  from  school,  and 
accompanied  her  mother  on  a  visit  to  some  relatives  in  Canada.  While 
there  she  finished  Amir  Khan,  her  longest  poem,  and  began  a  prose  tale, 
called  The  Recluse  of  the  Saranac.  It  was  about  this  time  that  the  Hon. 
Moss  Kent,  an  early  friend  of  her  mother,  became  acquainted  with  Lu- 
cretia,  and  so  deeply  interested  in  her  genius,  that  he  resolved,  if  he 
could  persuade  her  parents  to  resign  her  to  his  care,  to  afford  her  every 
advantage  for  improvement  that  the  country  ^ould  afford.  At  his  sug 
gestion,  in  November,  1824,  she  was  placed  under  the  care  of  Mrs.  Wil- 
lard  ;  in  whose  seminary  at  Troy  she  remained  during  the  winter.  The 
following  spring,  she  was  transferred  to  a  boarding  school  at  Albany; 
but  while  there  her  health  gave  way,  and  she  was  obliged  to  return 
home  to  Plattsburg.  The  strength  of  affection,  and  the  skill  of  physi 
cians,  failed,  however,  to  restore  her.  The  hand  of  Death  alone  gave 
her  ease ;  and  she  gently  fell  asleep  one  morning  in  August  1825  ;  ex 
actly  one  month  before  her  seventeenth  birthday.  President  Morse,  of 
the  American  Society  of  Arts,  first  published  her  biography;  and  soon 
after,  a  delightful  memoir  from  the  able  pen  of  Miss  Sedgwick  spread 
the  name  of  Lucretia  Davidson  far  and  wide. 

Margaret  Miller  was  born  on  the  26th  of  March,  1823.  She 
was  therefore  but  two  years  and  a  half  old  when  Lucretia  died;  an 
event  which  made  a  deep  impression  on  her.  Although  so  young,  she 
seemed  not  only  to  feel  her  loss,  but  to  understand  and  appreciate  her 
sister's  character  arid  talents;  and  from  the  first  dawning  of  intellect 
gave  evidence  that  she  possessed  the  same.  "  By  the  time  she  was  six 
years  old,"  says  her  mother,  "  her  language  assumed  an  elevated  tone; 
and  her  mind  seemed  filled  with  poetic  imagery,  blended  with  veins  of 
religious  thought."  The  sacred  writings  were  her  daily  study.  Devo 
tional  feelings  seemed  interwoven  with  her  very  existence.  A  longing 
after  heaven,  that  her  spirit  might  be  free  from  the  thraldom  of  earth, 
was  as  natural  to  her,  as  a  longing  for  a  holiday  to  be  let  loose  from 
school  is  to  other  children.  Yet  she  enjoyed  most  fully  the  quiet  plea 
sures  that  surrounded  her,  and  her  heart  was  always  swelling  with 
love  and  gratitude.  Sometimes,  too,  the  consciousness  of  genius, — 
the  inward  assurance  that  she  was  a  poet,  —  would  make  her 
think  on  what  might  be,  were  she  to  live ;  but  the  restless  thoughts  of 


288    LUCRETIA     AND     MARGARET     DAVIDSON. 

fame  were  soon  lost  again,  in  happier,  calmer  hopes  of  an   abiding 
heaven. 

Dear  child  !  she  little  knew  that  so  soon  both  were  to  be  hers— "an 
honoured  name"  on  earth,  and  "  a  glorious  crown"  in  heaven.  Like  all 
true  poets,  she  had  a  keen  relish  for  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  fed  upon 
them  from  her  infancy.  Her  earliest  home  was  upon  the  banks  of  the 
Saranac,  commanding  a  fine  view  of  Lake  Champlain,  and  surrounded 
by  the  most  romantic  and  picturesque  scenery ;  but  wherever  she  re 
sided,  she  found  something  to  admire  and  love,  upon  the  earth  or  in  the 
sky. 

Margaret  was  always  instructed  by  her  mother,  whose  poetical 
tastes  and  affectionate  disposition  made  her  capable  of  appreciating  and 
sympathizing  with  the  warm  impulses  and  aspiring  thoughts  of  her 
sweet  pupil.  The  love  between  this  mother  and  daughter  is  a  poem  of 
itself.  No  one  can  read  the  memoir  of  Margaret,  by  Washington 
Trving,  without  feeling  the  heart,  if  not  the  eyes,  overflow.  But  the 
links  that  bound  them  to  each  other  on  earth  were  soon  severed ;  —  for 
when  she  was  but  fifteen  years  and  eight  months  old,  this  gentle  girl 
died  at  Ballston,  Saratoga  County,  in  November,  1838.  We  could 
not  wish  that  she  should  have  staid  longer  on  earth,  an  exile  from  her 
native  heaven;  yet,  as  we  listen  to  the  soaring  strains  of  her  young  ge 
nius,  and  are  borne  upward  by  their  energy,  we  cannot  help  wondering 
what  would  have  been  its  thrilling  tones  and  lofty  flights,  had  life 
unfolded  its  mysteries  year  after  year  to  her  poet's  eye.  But  we  thank 
God  she  was  spared  the  sight  of  them ;  for  though  we  have  lost  the 
songs,  she  has  missed  the  sorrow ! 

Robert  Southey,  interested  in  Lucretia's  story,  wrote  eloquently  upon 
it  in  the  London  Quarterly  Review.  His  high  estimate  of  her  genius 
may  with  equal  truth  be  applied  to  both  sisters.  "There  is  enough  of 
originality,  enough  of  aspiration,  enough  of  conscious  energy,  enough 
of  growing  power,  in  their  poems,  to  warrant  any  expectations,  however 
sanguine,  which  the  patrons,  and  friends,  and  parents  of  the  deceased 
could  have  formed." 


LUCRETIA     MARIA     DAVIDSON.  289 


LUCRETIA. 


TO     MY     SISTER. 

WHEN  evening  spreads  her  shades  around, 
And  darkness  fills  the  arch  of  heaven  ; 

When  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound 
To  Fancy's  sportive  ear  is  given ; 

When  the  broad  orb  of  heaven  is  bright, 
And  looks  around  with  golden  eye  ; 

When  Nature,  soften'd  by  her  light, 
Seems  calmly,  solemnly  to  lie ; 

Then,  when  our  thoughts  are  raised  above 
This  world,  and  all  this   world  can  give 

Oh,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love, 
And  tears  of  gratitude  receive. 

The  song  which  thrills  my  bosom's  core, 
And  hovering,  trembles,  half  afraid  ; 

O  sister,  sing  the  song  once  more 

Which  ne'er  for  mortal  ear  was  made. 

'T  were  almost  sacrilege  to  sing 

Those  notes  amid   the  glare  of  day; 

Notes  borne  by  angel's  purest  wing, 
And   wafted  by  their  breath  away. 

When  sleeping  in  my  grass-grown  bed, 
Should'st  thou  still  linger  here  above, 
Wilt  thou  not  kneel  beside  my  head, 

And,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love  ? 
25  T 


290  LUCRETIA     MARIA     DAVIDSON 


FEATS     OF     DEATH. 

I  HAVE  pass'd  o'er  the  earth  in  the  darkness  of  night, 
I  have  walk'd  the  wild  winds  in  the  morning's  broad  light ; 
I  have  paused  o^er  the  bower  where  the  infant  lay  sleeping, 
And  I  've  left  the  fond  mother  in  sorrow  and  weeping. 

My  pinion  was  spread,  and  the  cold  dew  of  night 
Which  withers  and  moulders  the  flower  in  its  light, 
Fell  silently  o'er  the  warm  cheek  in  its  glow, 
And  I  left  it  there  blighted,  and  wasted,  and  low  ; 
I  culled  the  fair  bud.  as  it  danced  in  its  mirth, 
And  I  left  it  to  moulder  and  fade  on  the  earth. 

I  paused  o'er  the  valley,  the  glad  sounds  of  joy 
Rose  soft  through  the  mist,  and  ascended  on  high ; 
The  fairest  were  there,  and  I  paused  in  my  flight, 
And  the  deep  cry  of  wailing  broke  wildly  that  night. 

I  stay  not  to  gather  the  lone  one  to  earth, 
I  spare  not  the  young  in  their  gay  dance  of  mirth, 
But  I  sweep  them  all  on  to  their  home  in  the  grave, 
I   stop  not  to  pity  —  I  stay  not  to  save. 

I  paused  in  my  pathway,  for  beauty  was  there  ; 

It  was  beauty  too  death-like,  too  cold,  and  too  fair! 

The  deep  purple  fountain  seem'd  melting  away, 

And  the  faint  pulse  of  life  scarce  remember'd  to  play; 

She  had  thought  on  the  tomb,  she  was  waiting  for  me, 

I  gazed,  I  passed  on,  and  her  spirit  was  free. 

The  clear  stream  roll'd  gladly,  and  bounded  along, 
With  ripple,  and  murmur,  and  sparkle,  and  song; 
The  minstrel  was  tuning  his  wild  harp  to  love, 
And  sweet,  and  half-sad  were  the  numbers  he  wove. 


I 


J 


LUCRETIA     MARIA     DAVIDSON.  291 

I  pass'd,  and  the  harp  of  the  bard  was  unstrung; 

O'er    the    stream    which    rolPd    deeply,    'twas    recklessly 

hung ; 

The  minstrel  was  not!  and  I  pass'd  on  alone, 
O'er  the  newly-raised  turf,  and  the  rudely-carved  stone. 


MORNING. 

I  COME  in  the  breath  of  the  waken'd  breeze, 

I  kiss  the  flowers,  and  I  bend  the  trees ; 

And  I  shake  the  dew,  which  hath  fallen  by  night, 

From  its  throne,  on  the  lily's  pure  bosom  of  white. 

Awake  thee,  when  bright  from  my  couch  in  the  sky, 

I  beam  o'er  the  mountains,  and  come  from  on  high  ; 

When  my  gay  purple  banners  are  waving  afar; 

When  my  herald,  gray  dawn,  hath  extinguished  each  star; 

When  I  smile  on  the  woodlands,  and  bend  o'er  the  lake, 

Then  awake  thee,  O  maiden,  I  bid  thee  awake ! 

Thou  mayst  slumber  when  all  the  wide  arches  of  Heaven 

Glitter  bright  with  the  beautiful  fire  of  even ; 

When  the  moon  walks  in  glory,  and  looks  from  on  high, 

O'er  the  clouds  floating  far  through  the  clear  azure  sky, 

Drifting  on  like  the  beautiful  vessels  of  Heaven, 

To  their  far-away  harbour,  all  silently  driven, 

Bearing  on,  in  their  bosoms,  the  children  of  light, 

Who  have  fled  from  this  dark  world  of  sorrow  and  night; 

Where  the  lake  lies  in  calmness  and  darkness,  save  where 

The  bright  ripple  curls,  'neath  the  smile  of  a  star; 

When  all  is  in  silence  and  solitude  here, 

Then  sleep,  maiden,  sleep!  without  sorrow  or  fear! 

But  when  I  steal  silently  o'er  the  lake, 

Awake  thee  then,  maiden,  awake !  oh,  awake ! 


292  MARGARET     MILLER     DAVIDSON. 

ON     THE     MOTTO     OF     A     SEAL. 

"  If  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost." 
(ADDRESSED  TO   A    FRIEND.) 

WAFTED  o'er  a  treacherous  sea, 
Far  from  home,  and  far  from  thee; 
Between  the  heaven  and  ocean  toss'd, 
"  If  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost." 

When  the  polar  star  is  beaming, 
O'er  the  dark-brow'd  billows  gleaming, 
I  think  of  thee  and  dangers  cross'd, 
For,  «  If  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost." 

When  the  lighthouse  fire  is  blazing, 
High  towards  Heaven  its  red  crest  raising, 
I  think  of  thee,  while  onward  toss'd, 
For,  "  If  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost." 


MARGARET. 


TO     MY     SISTER     LUCRETIA. 

MY  sister!  With  that  thrilling  word 

What  thoughts  unnumber'd  wildly  spring ! 

What  echoes  in  my  heart  are  stirr'd, 

While  thus  I  touch  the  trembling  string ! 

I  cannot  weep  that  thou  art  fled, — 
For  ever  blends  my  soul  with  thine; 

Each  thought,  by  purer  impulse  led, 
Is  soaring  on  to  realms  divine. 


MARGARET     MILLER     DAVIDSON.  293 

Thou  wert  unfit  to  dwell  with  clay, 
For  sin  too  pure,  for  earth  too  bright! 

And  death,  who  call'd  thee  hence  away, 
Placed  on  his  brow  a  gem  of  light ! 

A  gem,  whose  brilliant  glow  is  shed 

Beyond  the  ocean's  swelling  wave, 
Which  gilds  the  memory  of  the  dead, 

And  pours  its  radiance  on  thy  grave. 

When  day  hath  left  his  glowing  car, 

And  evening  spreads  her  robe  of  love  •, 
When  worlds,  like  travellers  from  afar, 

Meet  in  the  azure  fields  above ; 

When  all  is  still,  and  fancy's  realm 

Is  opening  to  the  eager  view, 
Mine  eye  full  oft,  in  search  of  thee, 

Roams  o'er  that  vast  expanse  of  blue. 

I  know  that  here  thy  harp  is  mute, 

And  quench'd  the  bright  poetic  fire, 
Yet  still  I  bend  my  ear,  to  catch 

The  hymnings  of  thy  seraph  lyre. 

Oh !  if  this  partial  converse  now 

So  joyous  to  my  heart  can  be, 
How  must  the  streams  of  rapture  flow 

When  both  are  chainless,  both  are  free ! 

When  borne  from  earth  for  evermore, 

Our  souls  in  sacred  joy  unite, 
At  God's  almighty  throne  adore, 

And  bathe  in  beams  of  endless  light! 


25* 


294  MARGARET     MILLER     DAVIDSON. 


TO     DIE,     AND     BE      FORGOTTEN. 

A  FEW  short  years  will  roll  along, 

With  mingled  joy  and  pain, 
Then  shall  I  pass  —  a  broken  tone! 

An  echo  of  a  strain! 

Then  shall  I  fade  away  from  life, 
Like  cloud-tints  from  the  sky, 

When  the  breeze  sweeps  their  surface  o'er, 
And  they  are  lost  for  aye. 

The  soul  may  look  with  fervent  hope 

To  worlds  of  future  bliss ; 
But  oh !  how  saddening  to  the  heart 

To  be  forgot  in  this! 

Who  would  not  brave  a  life  of  tears 

To  win  an  honour'd  name  ? 
One  sweet  and  heart-awakening  tone 

From  the  silver  trump  of  fame  ? 

To  be,  when  countless  years  have  pass'd, 
The  good  man's  glowing  theme  ? 

To  be  —  but  I  —  what  right  have  I 
To  this  bewildering  dream  ? 

Oh,  it  is  vain,  and  worse  than  vain, 
To  dwell  on  thoughts  like  these; 

/,  a  frail  child,  whose  feeble  frame 
Already  knows  disease! 

Who,  ere  another  spring  may  dawn, 

Another  summer  bloom, 
May,  like  the  flowers  of  autumn,  lie 

A  tenant  of  the  tomb. 


MARGARET     MILLER     DAVIDSON.  295 

Away,  away,  presumptuous  thought, 

I  will  not  dwell  on  thee! 
For  what,  alas !  am  I  to  fame, 

And  what  is  fame  to  me? 

Let  all  these  wild  and  longing  thoughts 

With  the  dying  year  expire, 
And  I  will  nurse  within  my  breast 

A  purer,  holier  fire! 

Yes,  I  will  seek  my  mind  to  win 

From  all  these  dreams  of  strife, 
And  toil  to  write  my  name  within 

The  glorious  book  of  life. 

Then  shall  old  Time,  who,  rolling  on, 

Impels  me  towards  the  tomb, 
Prepare  for  me  a  glorious  crown, 

Through  endless  years  to  bloom. 


ON    MY    MOTHER'S    FIFTIETH    BIRTHDAY 

YES,  mother,  fifty  years  have  fled, 
With  rapid  footsteps  o'er  thy  head; 
Have  pass'd  with  all  their  motley  train, 
And  left  thee  on  thy  couch  of  pain  ! 
How  many  smiles,  and  sighs,  and  tears, 
How  many  hopes,  and  doubts,  and  fears, 
Have  vanished  with  that  lapse  of  years! 
Though  past,  those  hours  of  pain  and  grief 
Have  left  their  trace  on  memory's  leaf; 
Have  stamp'd  their  footprints  on  the  heart, 
In  lines  which  never  can  depart; 
Their  influence  on  the  mind  must  be 
As  endless  as  eternity. 


296  MARGARET     MILLER     DAVIDSON. 

Years,  ages,  to  oblivion  roll, 
Their  memory  forms  the  deathless  soul; 
They  leave  their  impress  as  they  go, 
And  shape  the  mind  for  joy  or  woe ! 
Yes,  mother,  fifty  years  have  past, 
And  brought  thee  to  their  close  at  last. 
Oh  that  we  all  could  gaze,  like  thee, 
Back  on  that  dark  and  tideless  sea, 
And  'mid  its  varied  records  find 
A  heart  at  ease  with  all  mankind, 
A  firm  and  self-approving  mind ! 
Grief,  that,  had  broken  hearts  less  fine, 
Hath  only  served  to  strengthen  thine; 
Time,  that  doth  chill  the  fancy's  play, 
Hath  kindled  thine  with  purer  ray; 
And  stern  disease,  whose  icy  dart 
Hath  power  to  chill  the  shrinking  heart, 
Has  left  thine  warm  with  love  and  truth, 
As  in  the  halcyon  days  of  youth. 
Oh  !  turn  not  from  the  meed  of  praise 
A  daughter's  willing  justice  pays; 
But  greet  with  smiles  of  love  again 
This  tribute  of  a  daughter's  pen. 


TWILIGHT. 

TWILIGHT!  sweet  hour  of  peace, 

Now  art  thou  stealing  on; 

Cease  from  thy  tumult,  thought !  and  fancy,  cease  ! 
Day  and  its  cares  have  gone ! 
Mysterious  hour, 
Thy  majjic  power 
Steals  o'er  my  heart  like  music's  softest  tone. 


SARAH     LOUISA     P.     SMITH.  297 

The  golden  sunset  hues 

Are  fading  in  the  west; 

The  gorgeous  clouds  their  brighter  radiance  lose, 
Folded  on  evening's  breast. 

So  doth  each  wayward  thought, 
From  fancy's  altar  caught, 
Fade  like  thy  tints,  and  muse  itself  to  rest. 

Cold  must  that  bosom  be 

Which  never  felt  thy  power, 
Which  never  thrill'd  with  tender  melody 
At  this  bewitching  hour; 
When  nature's  gentle  art 
Enchains  the  pensive  heart; 
When  the  breeze  sinks  to  rest,  and  shuts  the  fragrant  flower. 

Wearied  with  care,  how  sweet  to  hail 

Thy  shadowy,  calm  repose, 
When  all  is  silent  but  the  whispering  gale 
Which  greets  the  sleeping  rose ; 
When,  as  thy  shadows  blend, 
The  trembling  thoughts  ascend, 
And  borne  aloft,  the  gates  of  heaven  unclose. 


SARAH  LOUISA  P.  SMITH. 

THIS  lovely  and  amiable  lady,  whose  life  was  of  such  short  du 
ration,  calls  forth  as  much  tenderness  and  admiration  as  those  bright 
children  of  «?enius  we  have  just  been  contemplating.  She  was  born  at 
Detroit  in  June,  1811,  and  died  before  she  had  attained  her  twenty-first 
year,  in  February,  1832.  Her  family  name  was  Hickman.  She  was 
educated  by  her  mother  with  great  care  and  devotion,  in  the  little  town 


298  SARAH     LOUISA     P.     SMITH. 

of  Newton,  near  Boston ;  which  had  long  been  the  home  of  her  mother's 
ancestors.  She  began  to  compose  when  a  very  little  child ;  and  by  the 
time  she  was  fifteen,  her  uncommon  talents  had  made  her  an  object  of 
attention  to  a  large  circle.  At  sixteen  she  was  married  to  Mr.  S.  J. 
Smith,  of  Providence,  R.  I.,  who  published  a  Volume  of  Poems  from 
her  pen,  soon  after  their  marriage. 

There  is  a  delicacy  and  purity  of  thought,  a  cheerful  buoyancy  of 
feeling  about  her  productions,  which  make  them  both  pleasing  and  use 
ful  ;  and  as  Mrs.  Smith  was  remarkably  sensible  of  her  own  deficiencies, 
and  earnest  in  self-discipline,  there  is  every  reason  to  suppose  that  she 
would  have  attained  great  excellence,  had  she  not  been  so  early  called' 
away.  The  genius  of  this  young  poetess,  however,  was  not  her  greatest 
charm.  The  qualities  of  her  heart  were  superior  to  those  of  her  head  ; 
and  bright  as  the  shining  intellect  was,  the  lustre  of  her  love  and  truth 
and  purity  far  outshone  it.  It  has  been  said  by  one  who  knew  her  well, 
"  Any  literary  distinction  she  might  have  gained  could  never  have  been 
thought  of  in  her  presence;  it  was  the  confiding  sincerity  of  her  man 
ners,  the  playfulness  of  her  conversation,  her  enthusiastic  and  devoted 
assiduity  to  those  she  loved,  which  made  her  presence  a  perpetual  de 
light."  Her  personal  appearance,  also,  was  one  of  great  loveliness; 
and  when  we  are  assured  that  to  beauty,  genius,  and  amiability,  there 
was  added  the  most  ardent  and  unaffected  piety,  we  may  well  believe 
that  she  was  fitted  while  on  earth  for  singing  among  the  seraphs  in 
heaven. 


THE     HUMA. 

FLY  on  !   nor  touch  thy  wing,  bright  bird, 

Too  near  our  shaded  earth, 
Or  the  warbling,  now  so  sweetly  heard, 

May  lose  its  note  of  mirth. 
Fly  on  —  nor  seek  a  place  of  rest 

In  the  home  of  "  care-worn  things ;" 
5T  would  dim  the  light  of  thy  shining  crest 

And  thy  brightly  burnish'd  wings, 


•  A  bird  peculiar  to  the  East.     It  is  supposed  to  fly  constantly  in  the 
air,  and  never  touch  the  ground. 


SARAH     LOUISA     P.     SMITH.  299 

To  dip  them  where  the  waters  glide 
That  flow  from  a  troubled  earthly  tide. 

The  fields  of  upper  air  are  thine, 

Thy  place  where  stars  shine  free: 
I  would  thy  home,  bright  one,  were  mine, 

Above  life's  stormy  sea. 
1  would  never  wander,  bird,  like  thee, 

So  near  this  place  again, 
With  wing  and  spirit  once  light  and  free  — 

They  should  wear  no  more  the  chain 
With  which  they  are  bound  and  fetter'd  here, 
For  ever  struggling  for  skies  more  clear. 

There  are  many  things  like  thee,  bright  bird, 

Hopes  as  thy  plumage  gay; 
Our  air  is  with  them  for  ever  stirr'd, 

But  still  in  air  they  stay. 
And  happiness,  like  thee,  fair  one, 

Is  ever  hovering  o'er, 
But  rests  in  a  land  of  brighter  sun, 

On  a  waveless,  peaceful  shore, 
And  stoops  to  lave  her  weary  wings, 
Wrhere  the  fount  of  "  living  waters  "  springs. 


I     WOULD     NEVER     KNEEL. 

I  WOULD  never  kneel  at  a  gilded  shrine, 

To  worship  the  idol  gold ; 
I  would  never  fetter  this  heart  of  mine, 

As  a  thing  for  fortune  sold. 

There  are  haughty  steps  that  would  walk  the  globe 

O'er  necks  of  humbler  ones ; 
I  would  scorn  to  bow  to  their  jewell'd  robe, 

Or  the  beam  of  their  coin-lit  suns. 


I 

L. 


300  SARAH     LOUISA     P.      SMITH. 

But  I'd  bow  to  the  light  that  God  has  given, 

The  nobler  light  of  mind, 
The  only  light,  save  that  of  Heaven, 

That  should  free-will  homage  find. 


S  T  ANZ  A  S. 

I  WOULD  not  have  thee  deem  my  heart 

Unmindful  of  those  higher  joys, 
Regardless  of  that  better  part 

Which  earthly  passion  ne'er  alloys. 
I  would  not  have  thee  think  1  live 

Within  heaven's  pure  and  blessed  light, 
Nor  feeling,  nor  affection  give 

To  Him  who  makes  my  pathway  bright. 

I  would  not  chain  to  mystic  creeds 

A  spirit  fetterless  and  free ; 
The  beauteous  path  to  heaven  that  leads 

Is  dimm'd  by  earthly  bigotry  : 
And  yet,  for  all  that  earth  can  give, 

And  all  it  e'er  can  take  away, 
I  would  not  have  that  spirit  rove 

One  moment  from  its  heavenward  way. 

I  would  not  that  my  heart  were  cold 

And  void  of  gratitude  to  Him, 
Who  makes  those  blessings  to  unfold, 

Which  by  our  waywardness  grow  dim. 
I  would  not  lose  the  cherish'd  trust 

Of  things  within  the  world  to  come, — 
The    thought,   that  when  their  joys  are  dust, 

The  weary  have  a  peaceful  home. 

For  I  have  left  the  dearly  loved, 

The  home,  the  hopes  of  other  years, 


SARAH     LOUISA     P.      SMITH.  301 

And  early  in  its  pathway  proved 

Life's  rainbow  hues  were  form'd  of  tears. 

I  shall  not  meet  them  here  again, 

Those  loved  and  lost,  and  cherish'd  ones, 

Bright  links  in  young  affection's  chain, 
In  memory's  sky  unsetting  suns. 

But  perfect  in  the  world  above, 

Through  suffering,  woe,  and  trial  here, 
Shall  glow  the  tmdiminish'd  love 

Which  clouds  and  distance  fail'd  to  sear; 
But  I  have  lingered  all  to  long, 

Thy  kind  remembrance  to  engage, 
And  woven  but  a  mournful  song, 

Wherewith  to  dim  thy  page. 

THE     FALL     OF     WARSAW. 

THROUGH  Warsaw  -there  is  weeping, 

And  a  voice  of  sorrow  now, 
For  the  hero  who  is  sleeping, 
With  death  upon  his  brow ; 
The  trumpet-tone  will  waken 
No  more  his  martial  tread, 
Nor  the  battle-ground  be  shaken, 
When  his  banner  is  outspread ! 
Now  let  our  hymn 

Float  through  the  aisle, 
Faintly  and  dim, 

Where  moonbeams  smile ; 
Sisters,  let  our  solemn  strain 
Breathe  a  blessing  o'er  the  slain ! 

There 's  a  voice  of  grief  in  Warsaw, 

The  mourning  of  the  brave 
O'er  the  chieftain  who  is  gather'd 

Unto  his  honour'd  grave ; 
26 


302  SARAH     LOUISA     P.     SMITH. 

Who  now  will  face  the  foeman  ? 
Who  break  the  tyrant's  chain? 
Their  bravest  one  lies  fallen, 
And  sleeping  with  the  slain. 
Now  let  our  hymn 

Float  through  the  aisle, 
Faintly  and  dim, 

Where  moonbeams  smile; 
Sisters,  let  our  dirge  be  said 
Slowly  o'er  the  sainted  dead! 

There 's  a  voice  of  woman  weeping, 

In  Warsaw  heard  to-night, 
And  eyes  close  not  in  sleeping, 

That  late  with  joy  were  bright; 
No  Festal  torch  is  lighted, 

No  notes  of  music  swell; 
Their  country's  hope  was  blighted, 
When  that  son  of  freedom  fell ! 
Now  let  our  hymn 

Float  through  the  aisle, 
Faintly  and  dim, 

Where  moonbeams  smile; 
Sisters,  let  our  hymn  arise 
Sadly  to  the  midnight  skies! 

And  a  voice  of  love  undying, 

From  the  tomb  of  other  years, 
Like  the  west  wind's  summer  sighing, 

It  blends  with  manhood's  tears; 
It  whispers  not  of  glory, 

Nor  fame's  unfading  youth, 
But  lingers  o'er  a  story 

Of  young  affection's  truth. 
Now  let  our  hymn 
Float  through  the  aisle, 


LYDIA     JANE     PElRSON.  303 

Faintly  and  dim, 

Where  moonbeams  smile ; 
Sisters,  let  our  solemn  strain 
Breathe  a  blessing  o'er  the  slain ! 


LYDIA  JANE   PEIRSON. 

THE  pleasant  city  of  Middletown,  Connecticut,  was  the  birthplace 
of  "The  forest  minstrel,"  Mrs.  Peirson.  Her  parents,  (whose  sur 
name  was  Wheeler,)  were  both  persons  of  great  intelligence  and  piety, 
and  afforded  their  daughter  every  facility  for  obtaining  a  good  educa 
tion.  Her  poetical  tastes  were  quickly  developed,  and  fondly  encou 
raged  by  her  father,  who  was  himself  a  passionate  lover  of  poetry, 
flowers,  music,  and  of  whatever  makes  life  beautiful.  Some  of  her  ear 
liest  recollections  are  of  singing  her  own  rhymes  to  little  wild  airs  of 
her  own  composition,  as  she  sat  at  twilight  among  the  flowers  her  father 
had  planted,  and  taught  her  to  cultivate.  In  her  happy  childhood's 
home  she  remained  until  her  sixteenth  year,  when  her  father  removed 
to  Canandaigua,  N.  Y.  Here,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  she  married, 
and  two  years  after,  went  with  her  husband  and  his  family  to  Liberty, 
Tioga  County,  where  she  breasted  the  hardships  of  pioneer  life  in  one 
of  the  wildest  northern  counties  of  Pennsylvania.  For  a  long  while 
her  dwelling-place  was  a  log-cabin  in  the  woods,  five  miles  from  any 
house,  and  twenty  from  any  village  where  there  was  a  store,  or  a  house 
for  public  worship.  Her  privations  and  inconveniences  were  many,  arid 
her  sorrows  too;  but  she  poured  out  her  soul  in  song,  and  found — to  use 
her  own  words — that  her  "converse  with  poetry,  wild-flowers,  and  sing 
ing  birds,  was  nearly  all  that  made  life  endurable."  She  is  still  a 
dweller  of  the  forest,  but  has  exchanged  the  log-hut  for  a  beautiful  farm 
in  the  midst  of  those  dense  woods.  Not  long  ago  we  received  from  the 
Hon.  Ellis  Lewis,  of  Lancaster,  a  short  account  of  the  way  in  which  this 
pleasant  change  was  brought  about ;  and  have  since  seen  the  interesting 
story  in  print,  from  which  we  feel  no  hesitancy  in  transcribing.  "  A  num 
ber  of  years  ago,  when  the  best  talents  of  Pennsylvania  were  called  into 


304  LYDIA     JANE     PEIRSON. 

requisition  to  establish  a  system  of  common  schools  for  the  general  edu 
cation  of  the  people,  Thaddeus  Stevens,  a  distinguished  lawyer  of  the 
state,  made  a  masterly  speech  in  the  Legislature  in  favour  of  education. 
Judge  Ellis  Lewis,  who  is  also  distinguished  for  his  learning  and  ability 
as  a  jurist,  was  at  the  time  President  of  several  literary  institutions, 
and  zealously  engaged  in  promoting  the  cause  of  education  by  deliver 
ing  literary  and  scientific  lectures.  About  this  time,  a  powerful  pro 
duction  in  poetry,  in  favour  of  education,  made  its  appearance,  and  gave 
a  new  impetus  to  the  cause.  Judge  Lewis  made  immediate  inquiry 
concerning  the  writer  of  it;  and  ascertained  that,  owing  to  a  long  and 
sad  train  of  misfortunes,  the  fair  authoress,  with  a  large  family,  was  with 
out  a  home,  and  in  a  state  of  great  pecuniary  embarrassment.  He  met 
Mr.  Stevens,  then  a  rich  bachelor,  in  the  Chamber  of  the  House  of 
Representatives,  and  suggested  the  propriety  of  raising  something  for 
the  relief  of  so  much  talent  and  worth.  With  that  true  benevolence 
for  which  Mr.  Stevens  is  distinguished,  he  authorized  the  Judge  to  pur 
chase  a  suitable  farm,  such  as  the  lady  herself  might  select,  and  with 
out  any  limit  with  respect  to  the  price,  to  draw  upon  him  for  the  amount. 
The  lady  was  overwhelmed  with  astonishment  when  she  received  a 
letter  from  Judge  Lewis,  who  was  only  known  to  her  by  reputation, 
apprising  her  of  his  commission.  She,  however,  made  the  selection, 
and  the  Judge  made  the  purchase,  and  forwarded  to  Mrs.  Peirson  the 
deed  drawn  to  Thaddeus  Stevens,  in  trust  for  the  separate  use  of  Lydia 
Jane  Peirson,  and  her  heirs  and  assigns  for  ever.  It  is  but  justice  to 
add,  that  Mrs.  Peirson  was  an  entire  stranger  to  Judge  Lewis  and  Mr. 
Stevens.  Neither  had  ever  seen  her." 

In  1845,  a  volume  of  Mrs.  Peirson's  poetry  was  published  in  Phila 
delphia,  called  Forest  Leaves,  and  in  the  following  year,  another  called 
The  Forest  Minstrel.  Her  poems  have  appeared  also  in  Graham's 
Magazine,  and  other  periodicals,  to  which  she  still  contributes.  She 
writes  from  the  heart,  with  an  intensity  of  feeling,  and  a  strength  of 
expression,  that  show  she  has  thought  and  suffered  much.  Her  muse 
has,  indeed,  been  disciplined  in  the  school  of  sorrow;  she  has  had  little 
leisure  for  study,  and  her  poems  have  been  generally  "  written  by  the 
flickering  lamp  of  midnight,  with  a  weary  hand,  and  yet  more  weary 
heart." 


LYDIA     JANE     PEIRSON.  305 

REMEMBRANCE    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

(FROM    "MY   OLD   LETTERS.") 

THE  fire  is  blazing  on  the  ample  hearth, 

Diffusing-  comfort  through  the  antique  room, 

And  we  are  watching  in  our  simple  mirth 
The  giant  shadows  starting  from  the  gloom. 

With  seeming  menace  and  imperious  air 

They  seem  to  beckon  with  their  wavering  hands, 

And  flit  away.      We  wonder  whence  they  are, 
And  seek  to  reason  of  the  ghostly  bands. 

But  at  our  mother's  voice  we  leave  our  play, 

And  crowd  our  low  seats  close  around  her  chair  ; 

Eacli  prompt  to  meet  the  loving  smiles  that  play 
Upon  her  lips  and  brow  so  purely  fair. 

Her  beautiful  white  hand  forsakes  awhile 

The  task  by  love  made  pleasant  for  our  sake, 

To  rest  a  moment,  with  caressing  wile, 

On  brows  that  'neath  that  pressure  could  not  ache. 

Her  clear  eyes  rest  with  proud  yet  troubled  joy 
Upon  the  blue-eyed  treasures  at  her  feet; 

The  rosy  girl,  the  noble-hearted  boy, 

The  little  smilers,  with  their  prattle  sweet. 

All  good  and  happy,  through  her  pious  care, 
Loving  and  well-beloved,  a  blessed  band, 

All  leaning  on  her  love,  rejoiced  to  share 

The  blessings  of  her  voice,  her  love,  her  hand. 

And,  now,  our  father,  who,  the  whole  day  long, 
Had  plied  the  art  by  which  he  earns  us  bread, 

With  glance  of  pleasure  on  his  own  glad  throng, 
Sits  down  to  taste  the  feast  for  reason  spread. 
26* 


306  LYDIA     JANE     PEIRSON. 

His  much-loved  book  —  the  poet's  lofty  lay, 
The  traveller's  tale  of  strange  and  far-off  lands, 

The  voyager's  story  of  the  mighty  sea, 

The  attention  of  the  little  group  commands. 

We  listen,  full  of  wonder  and  delight, 

Until  the  witching  volume  is  laid  by. 
And  loving  voices  breathe  the  kind  "Good  night!" 

And  light  lids  close  above  each  sleepy  eye. 

SING   ON! 

"  Sing  on  ! — You  will  win  the  wreath  of  Fame  :  if  not  in  life,  it  will 
bloom  gloriously  over  your  tomb." — Friendly  Correspondence. 

'Tis  not  for  Fame:  I  know  I  may  not  win 
A  wreath  from  high  Parnassus,  for  my  name 
Is  written  on  the  page  of  humble  life, 
From   which  the  awarders  of  the  laurel  wreath 
Avert  their  eyes  with  scorning. 

I  have  felt 

The  mildew  of  affliction,  the  east  wind 
Of  withering  contempt,  the  pelting  storms 
Of  care,  and  toil,  and  bitterness,  and  wo, 
In  almost  every  form.     I  too  have  known 
The  darkness  of  bereavement,  and  keen  pangs 
Which  woman  may  not  utter,  though  her  heart 
Consume  amid  their  fierceness,  and  her  brain 
Burn  to  a  living  cinder;  though  the  wound 
Which  is  so  hard  to  bear,  lie  festering  deep 
Within  her  outraged  spirit;  though  her  sighs 
Disturb  the  quiet  of  the  blessed  night, 
While  sweet  dews  cool  and  soothe  the  fever'd  breast 
Of  every  other  mourner ;  though  she  pour 
The  flood  of  life's  sweet  fountain  out  in  tears 
Along  her  desert  pathway ;  while  the  blooms 


!  j 


LYDIA     JANE     PEIRSON.  307 

Of  health,  and  hope,  and  joy,  that  should  have  fed 

Upon  its  gushing  waters  and  rich  dew, 

Lie  wither'd  in  her  bosom,  breathing  forth 

The  odours  of  a  crush'd  and  wasted  heart, 

That  cannot  hope  for  soothing  or  redress, 

Save  in  the  quiet  bosom  of  the  grave, 

And  in  the  heaven  beyond. 

'Tis  not  for  Fame 
That  I  awaken  with  my  simple  lay 
The  echoes  of  the  forest     I  but  sing 
As  sings  the  bird,  that  pours  her  native  strain, 
Because  her  soul  is  made  of  melody, 
And  lingering  in  the  bowers,  her  warblings  seem 
To  gather  round  her  all  the  tuneful  forms, 
Whose  bright  wings  shook  rich  incense  from  the  flowers, 
And  balmy  verdure  of  the  sweet  young  spring, 
O'er  which  the  glad  day  shed  his  brightest  smile, 
And  night  her  purest  tears.     I  do  but  sing 
Like  that  sad  bird,  who  in  her  loneliness 
Pours  out  in  song  the  treasures  of  her  soul, 
Which  else  would  burst  her  bosom,  which  has  nought 
On  which  to  lavish  the  warm  streams  that  gush 
Up  from  her  trembling  heart,  and  pours  them  forth 
Upon  the  sighing  winds,  in  fitful  strains. 

Perchance  one  pensive  spirit  loves  the  song, 
And  lingers  in  the  twilight  near  the  wood 
To  list  her  plaintive  sonnet,  which  unlocks 
The  sealed  fountain  of  a  hidden  grief. — 
That  pensive  listener,  or  some  playful  child, 
May  miss  the  lone  bird's  song,  what  time  her  wings 
Are  folded  in  the  calm  and  silent  sleep, 
Above  her  broken  heart.     Then,  though  they  weep 
In  her  deserted  bower,  and  hang  rich  wreaths 
Of  ever-living  flowers  upon  her  grave, 


308  LYDIA     JANE     PEIRSON. 

What  will  it  profit  her  who  would  have  slept 
As  deep  and  sweet  without  them  ? 

Oh !  how  vain 

With  promised  garlands  for  the  sepulchre, 
To  think  to  cheer  the  soul,  whose  daily  prayer 
Is  but  for  bread  and  peace!  —  whose  trembling  hopes 
For  immortality  ask  one  green  leaf 
From  off  the  healing  trees  that  grow  beside 
The  pure  bright  river  of  Eternal  Life. 


THE     LAST     PALE     FLOWERS. 

THE  last  pale  flowers  are  drooping  on  the  stems, 
The  last  sear  leaves  fall  fluttering  from  the  tree, 

The  latest  groups  of  Summer's  flying  gems 
Are    hymning  forth  a  parting  melody. 

The  winds  are  heavy-wing'd  and  linger  by, 
Whispering  to  every  pale  and  sighing  leaf; 

The  sunlight  falls  all  dim  and  tremblingly, 

Like  love's  fond  farewell  through  the  mist  of  grief. 

There  is  a  dreamy  presence  every  where, 

As  if  of  spirits  passing  to  and  fro; 
We  almost  hear  their  voices  in  the  air, 

And  feel  their  balmy  pinions  touch  the  brow. 

We  feel  as  if  a  breath  might  put  aside 
The  shadowy  curtains  of  the  spirit-land, 

Revealing  all  the  loved  and  glorified 

That  death  has  taken  from  affection's  band. 

We  call  their  names,  and  listen  for  the  sound 
Of  their  sweet  voices'  tender  melodies ; 

We  look  almost  expectantly  around, 

For  those  dear  faces  with  the  loving  eyes. 


LYDIA     JANE     PEIRSON.  309 

We  feel  them  near  us.  and  spread  out  the  scroll 
Of  hearts  whose  feelings  they  were  wont  to  share, 

That  they  may  read  the  constancy  of  soul 
And  all  the  high  pure  motives  written  there. 

And  then  we  weep,  as  if  our  cheek  were  press'd 

To  friendship's  holy  unsuspecting  heart, 
Which  understands  our  own.     Oh,  vision  blest ! 

Alas,  that  such  illusion  should  depart. 

I  oft  have  pray'd  that  death  may  come  to  me 

In  such  a  spiritual  autumnal  day ; 
For  surely  it  would  be  no  agony 

With  all  the  beautiful  to  pass  away. 


COME     TO     THE     WOODS. 

COME  to  the  woods  in  June, 

5Tis  happiness  to  rove 
When  Nature's  lyres  are  all  in  tune, 

And  life  all  full  of  love. 
Come,  when  the  morning  light, 

Advancing  from  afar, 
Veils,  with  a  glory  soft  and  bright, 

Her  smiling  favourite  star. 
While  from  the  dewy  dells, 

And  every  wild-wood  bower, 
A  thousand  little  feather'd  bells 

Ring  out  the  matin  hour. 

Come,  when  the  sun  is  high, 
And  earth  all  full  in  bloom, 

When  every  passing  summer  sigh 
Is  languid  with  perfume; 

When  by  the  mountain-brook 
The  watchful  red-deer  lies; 


310  LYDIA    JANE     PEIRSON. 

And  spotted  fawns,  in  mossy  nook, 

Have  closed  their  wild,  bright  eyes ;  — 
While  from  the  giant  tree, 

And  fairy  of  the  sod, 
A  dreamy  wind-harp  melody 

Speaks  to  the  soul  of  God; 
Whose  beauteous  gifts  of  love 

The  passing  hours  unfold, 
Till  e'en  the  sombre  hemlock  boughs 

Are  tipped  with  fringe  of  gold. 

Come,  when  the  sun  is  set, 

And  see  along  the  west 
Heaven's  glory,  streaming  through  the  gate 

By  which  he  pass'd  to  rest. 
While  brooklets,  as  they  flow 

Beneath  the  cool  sweet  bowers, 
Sing  fairy  legends,  soft  and  low, 

To  groups  of  listening  flowers ; 
And  creeping  formless  shades 

Make  distance  strange  and  dim, 
And  with  the  daylight  softly  fades 

The  wild  bird's  evening  hymn. 

Come,  when  the  woods  are  dark, 

And  winds  go  fluttering  by, 
While  here  and  there  a  phantom  bark 

Floats  in  the  deep  blue  sky; 
While  gleaming  far  away 

Beyond  th'  aerial  flood, 
Lies  in  its  starry  majesty 

The  city  of  our  God. 


LYDIA     JA.NE     PEIRSON.  311 


THE     BRIDE     OF      HEAVEN. 

How  beautiful  she  lies,  upon  her  pure  white  bed, 
While  pale  flowers  o'er  her  brow  a  holy  incense  shed; 
The  eyelids  tremble  not,  so  peaceful  is  her  rest, 
That  even  her  maiden  heart  lies  silent  in  her  breast. 

Why  o'er  the  sweet  calm  face,  fond  mother,  dost  thou  weep  ? 
Wouldst  thou  awake  thy  child  from  such  a  quiet  sleep? 
She  is  asleep  with  Him  whose  love  alone  is  pure, 
Within  whose  presence  bliss  shall  evermore  endure. 

No  grief,  no  care,  no  pain,  can  ever  pierce  her  heart, 
No  loved  voice  say  again,  "sweet  sister,  we  must  part!" 
The  living  waters  sweet  have  quench'd  her  spirit's  thirst, 
And  on  her  soul  the  light  of  Holiness  has  burst. 

Why  weep  we  then  for  her  whose  days  of  pain  are  o'er? 
Bright  hands    have  wiped  her    tears,  and  she    shall    shed    no 

more. 

To  agony  and  tears  the  brides  of  earth  are  given  — 
Oh,  bless  her,  as  she  lies,  the  pure  young  bride  of  Heaven. 

SUNSET     IN     THE      FOREST. 

COME  now  unto  the  Forest,  and  enjoy 
The  loveliness  of  nature.     Look  abroad 
And  note  the  tender  beauty  and  repose 
Of  the  magnificent,  in  earth  and  sky. 
See  what  a  radiant  smile  of  golden  light 
O'erspreads  the  face  of  heaven  ;   while  the  west 
Burns  like  a  living  ruby,  in  the  ring 
Of  the  deep  green  horizon.     Now  the  shades 
Are  deepening  round  the  feet  of  the  tall  trees, 
Bending  the  head  of  the  pale  blossoms  down 
Upon  their  mother's  bosom,  where  the  breeze 
Comes  with  a  low  sweet  hymn  and  balmy  kiss, 


312 


LYDIA     JANE     PEIRSON. 


To  lull  them  to  repose.     Look  now,  and  see 
How  every  mountain,  with  its  leafy  plume, 
Or  rocky  helm,  with  crest  of  giant  pine, 
Is  veil'd  with  floating  amber,  and  gives  back 
The  loving  smile  of  the  departing  sun, 
And  nods  a  calm  adieu. 

Hark!  from  the  dell 

Where  sombre  hemlocks  sigh  unto  the  streams, 
Which  with  its  everlasting  harmony 
Returns  each  tender  whisper;   what  a  gush 
Of  liquid  melody,  like  soft,  rich  tones 
Of  flute  and  viol,  mingling  in  sweet  strains 
Of  love  and  rapture,  float  away  toward  heaven. 
'T  is  the  A^doleo  from  her  sweet  place, 
Singing  to  nature's  God  the  perfect  hymn 

Of  nature's  innocence. 

Does  it  not  seem 

That  earth  is  list'ning  to  that  evening  song? 

There's  such  a  hush  on  mountain,  plain,  and  streams. 

Seems  not  the  sun   to  linger  in  his  bower 

On  yonder  leafy  summit,  pouring  forth 

His  glowing  adoration  unto  God, 

Blent  with  that  evening  hymn  ?  while  every  flower 

Bows  gracefully,  and   mingles   with  the  strain 

Its  balmy   breathing. 

Have  you  look'd  on  aught 

In  all  the  panoply  and   hustling  pride 

Of  the  dense  city   with  its   worldly  throng, 

So  soothing,  so  delicious  to  the  soul, 

So  like  the  ante-chamber  of  high  heaven, 

i 

As  this  old  forest,  with  the  emerald  crown 
Which  it  has  worn  for  ages,  glittering 
With  the  bright  halo  of  departing  day, 
While  from  its  bosom  living  seraphim 

Are  hymning  gratitude  and  love  to  God  ? 

i 
I 


JULIA  H.  SCOTT. 

THIS  lady,  whose  maiden  name  was  Kinney,  resided  in  Towanda, 
Bradford  County,  Pennsylvania,  a  place  whose  wild  romantic  beauty  has 
been  celebrated  by  many  of  her  sister-poets.  She  died  in  1842,  and, 
soon  after  this  event,  A  Volume  of  Poems  was  collected  from  her 
writings,  and  published  in  Boston.  Her  style  was  simple  and  melo 
dious;  the  following  exquisite  lines  to  My  Child  are  full  of  natural 
imagery,  poetic  thought,  and  unaffected  feeling. 

MY     CHILD. 

"There  is  one  who  has  loved  me  debarr'd  from   the  day." 

THE  foot  of  Spring  is  on  yon  blue-topp'd  mountain, 

Leaving  its  green  prints  'neath  each  spreading  tree ; 
Her  voice  is  heard  beside  the  swelling  fountain, 

Giving  sweet  tones  to  its   wild  melody. 
From  the  warm  South  she  brings  unnumbered  roses 

To  greet  with  smiles  the  eye  of  grief  and  care ; 
Her  balmy  breath  on  the  worn  brow  reposes, 

And  her  rich  gifts  are  scatter'd  everywhere : 
I  heed  them  not,  my  child  ! 

In  the  low  vale  the  snow-white  daisy  springeth, 

The  golden  dandelion  by  its  side, 
The  eglantine  a  dewy  fragrance  fiingeth 

To  the  soft  breeze  that  wanders  far  and   wide. 
The  hyacinth  and  polyanthus  render, 

From  their  deep  hearts,  an  offering  of  love ; 
And  fresh  May-pinks,  and  half-blown  lilacs,  tender 

Their  grateful  homage  to  the  skies  above  : 

I  heed  them  not,  my  child  ! 
27  (313) 


314  JULIA     H.     SC  OTT. 

In  the  clear  brook  are  springing  water-cresses, 

And  pale-green  rushes,  and  fair,  nameless  flowers, 
While  o'er  them  dip  the  willow's  verdant  tresses, 

Dimpling  the  surface  with  their  mimic  showers. 
The  honeysuckle  stealthily  is  creeping 

Round  the  low  porch  and  mossy  cottage-eaves ; 
Oh,  Spring  hath  fairy  treasures  in  her  keeping, 

And  lovely  are  the  landscapes  that  she  weaves  : 
'T  is  nought  to  me  my  child ! 

Down  the  green  lane  come  peals  of  heartfelt  laughter-, 

The  school  has  sent  its  eldest  inmates  forth ; 
And  now  a  smaller  band  comes  dancing  after, 

Filling  the  air  with  shouts  of  infant  mirth. 
At  the  rude  gate  the  anxious  dame  is  bending 

To  clasp  her  rosy  darling  to  her  breast; 
Joy,  pride  and  hope  are  in  her  bosom  blending; 

Ah,  peace  with  her  is  no  unusual  guest; 

Not  so  with  me,  my  child ! 

All  the  day  long  I  listen  to  the  singing 

Of  the  gay  birds  and  winds  among  the  trees ; 
But  a  sad  under-strain  is  ever  ringing 

A  tale  of  death  and  its  dread  mysteries. 
Nature  to  me  the  letter  is  that  killeth — 

The  spirit  of  her  charms  has  pass'd  away ; 
A  fount  of  bliss  no  more  my  bosom  filleth — 

Slumbers  its  idol  in  unconscious  clay ! 

Thou  art  in  the  grave,  rny  child  ! 

For  thy  glad  voice  my  spirit  inly  pineth  ; 

I  languish  for  thy  blue  eyes'  holy  light; 
Vainly  for  me  the  glorious  sunbeam  shineth ; 

Vainly  the  blessed  stars  come  forth  at  night ! 
I  walk  in  darkness,  with  the  tomb  before  me, 

Longing  to  lay  my  dust  beside  thy  own; 


JULIA     H.     SCOTT. 


315 


O,  cast  the  mantle  of  thy  presence  o'er  me ! 
Beloved,  leave  me  not  so  deeply  lone! 

Come  back  to  me,  my  child! 

Upon  that  breast  of  pitying  love  thou  leanest, 

Which  oft  on  earth  did  pillow  such  as  thou, 
Nor  turn'd  away  petitioner  the  meanest  — 

Pray  to  Him,  sinless  —  He  will  hear  thee  now. 
Plead  for  thy   weak  and  broken-hearted  mother; 

Pray  that  thy  voice  may  whisper  words  of  peace ; 
Her  ear  is  deaf,  and  can  discern  no  other; 

Speak,  and  her  bitter  sorrowings  shall  cease: 
Come  back  to  me,  my  child! 

Come  but  in  dreams  —  let  me  once  more  behold  thee, 

As  in  thy  hours  of  buoyancy  and  glee, 
And  one  brief  moment  in  my  arms  enfold  thee  — 

Beloved,  I  will  not  ask  thy  stay  with  me! 
Leave  but  the  impress  of  thy  dove-like  beauty, 

Which  memory  strives  so  vainly  to  recall, 
And  I  will  onward  in  the  path  of  duty, 

Restraining  tears  that  ever  fain  would  fall! 

Come  but  in  dreams,  my  child! 


LOVE      IN     ABSENCE. 

I  MISS  thee  each  lone  hour, 

Star  of  my  heart! 
No  other  voice  hath  power 

Joy  to  impart. 

I  listen  for  thy  hasty  step, 
Thy  kind  sweet  tone; 

But  silence  whispers  me, 
Thou  art  alone  ! 


316  JULIA     H.     SCOTT. 

Darkness  is  on  the  hearth  — 
Naught  do  I  say ; 

Books  are  but  little  worth  — 
Thou  art  away ! 

Voices,  the  true  and  kind, 
Strange  are  to  me ; 

I  have  lost  heart  and  mind, 
Thinking  of  thee. 


TO 


LOVELY  thou  art!  ay,  lovely 

In  spirit  and  in  form; 
A  sunbeam  glancing  o'er  life's  tears, 

A  rainbow  through  the  storm ; 
A  snow-drop  'mid  earth's  darker  hues, 

Unwarm'd  by  flattery's  breath, 
A  harp-tone  flung  from  cherub  hands, 

Wringing  out  joy  from  death. 

Lovely  thou  art,  ay,  lovely ; 

And  sorrow,  shared   with  thee, 
As  if  magician  changed,  becomes 

A  pleasure  unto  me. 
Life's  sky,  though  clothed  with  tempest-clouds, 

Grows  bright  when  thou  art  nigh ; 
And  tears  e'er  turn  to  smiles  beneath 

Thine  angel-gifted  eye ! 


ANN  S.  STEPHENS. 

ALTHOUGH  the  name  and  fame  of  Mrs,  Stephens  belong  particularly 
to  the  prose-writers  of  America,  yet  so  beautiful  in  their  simplicity  and 
earnestness  are  some  of  her  poetical  strains,  that  we  cannot  refrain 
from  giving*  them  a  welcome  to  our  pages,  while  we  express  our  admi 
ration  of  their  unpretending  merit. 

Mrs.  Stephens  is  a  native  of  Derby,  Connecticut ;  and  a  daughter  of 
John  Winterhotham,  Esq.,  who  was  formerly  connected  with  the  late 
Gen.  David  Humphreys,  in  the  woollen  manufactory  at  Humphrey's 
Ville,  Conn.,  but  now  resides  in  Ohio.  In  1831,  she  was  married  to  Ed  ward 
Stephens,  Esq.,  and  soon  after  removed  to  Portland,  Maine.  In  1835, 
she  undertook  the  editorship  of  The  Portland  Magazine,  (which  Mr. 
Stephens  had  established,)  and  conducted  it  with  much  success  for  two 
years,  when  ill-health  compelled  her  to  give  it  up.  She  also  edited 
The  Portland  Sketch  Book,  composed  of  contributions  from  the  various 
authors  of  that  city.  Mrs.  Stephens  came  to  New  York  in  1837,  in  which 
city  she  has  resided  ever  since.  For  four  years  she  conducted  The  Ladies' 
Companion  ;  in  1842,  she  became  editorially  connected  with  Graham's 
Magazine  ;  in  the  following  year  she  established  The  Ladies'  World; 
and  has  been  constant  and  energetic  in  her  literary  labours  until  the 
present  time.  She  is  now  the  editor  of  The  Ladies'  National  Maga 
zine, 

Her  own  contributions,  numerous  and  skilful  as  they  are,  to  the  va 
rious  periodicals  of  the  day,  prove  her  to  be  as  industrious  a  composer 
as  she  is  a  laborious  editor.  Her  stories  always  contain  many  excellent 
moral  lessons,  and  much  original  thought;  whatever  she  writes  is 
written  with  a  bold  pen,  and  with  that  unmixed  sincerity  of  purpose, 
that  never  fails  to  attract  attention  and  secure  respect. 


THE     OLD     APPLE-TREE. 

I  AM  thinking  of  the  homestead 
With  its  low  and  sloping  roof; 

And  the  maple  boughs  that  shadow'd  it 
With  a  green  and  leafy  woof; 

27*  (317) 


318  ANN     S.     STEPHENS. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  lilac  trees 
That  shook  their  purple  plumes, 

And,  when  the  sash  was  open, 
Shed  fragrance  through  our  rooms. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  rivulet, 

With  its  cool  and  silvery  flow, 
Of  the  old  gray  rock  that  shadow'd  it, 

And  the  peppermint  below, 
I  am  not  sad  or  sorrowful, 

But  memories  will  come; 
So  leave  me  to  my  solitude, 

And  let  me  think  of  home. 

There  was  not  around  my  birthplace 

A  thicket  or  a  flower 
But  childish  game,  or  friendly  face, 

Has  given  it  a  power 
To  haunt  me  in  my  after  life, 

And  be  with  me  again, 
A  sweet  and  pleasant  memory, 

Of  mingled  joy  and  pain. 

But  the  old  and  knotted  apple-tree, 

That  stood  beneath  the  hill, 
My  heart  can  never  turn  to  it, 

But  with  a  pleasant  thrill. 
Oil,  what  a  dreamy  life  I  led 

Beneath  its  old  green  shade, 
Where  the  daisies  and  the  buttercups 

A  pleasant  carpet  made  ! 

'Twas  a  rough  old  tree  in  spring-time, 
When,  with  a  blustering  sound, 

The  wind  came  hoarsely  sweeping 
Along  the  frosty  ground. 


ANN     S.     STEPHENS.  319 

But  when  there  rose  a  rivalry 

'Tween  clouds  and  pleasant  weather, 

Till  the  sunshine  and  the  rain-drops 
Came  laughing  down  together; 

That  patriarch  old  apple-tree 

Enjoy 'd  the  lovely  strife ; 
The  sap  sprang  lightly  through  its  veins, 

And  circled  into  life ; 
A  cloud  of  pale  and  tender  buds 

Burst  o'er  each  rugged  bough, 
And  amid  their  starting  verdure 

The  robins  made  their  vow. 

That  tree  was  very  beautiful 

When  all  the  leaves  were  green, 
And  rosy  buds  lay  opening 

Amid  their  tender  sheen ; 
When  the  bright  translucent  dewdrops 

Shed  blossoms  as  they  fell, 
And  melted  in  their  fragrance, 

Like  music  in  a  shell. 

It  was  greenest  in  the  summer-time, 

When  cheerful  sunlight  wove. 
Amid  its  thrifty  leafiness, 

A  warm  and  glowing  love  ; 
When  swelling  fruit  blush'd  ruddily 

To  summer's  balmy  breath, 
And  the  laden  boughs  droop'd  heavily 

To  the  green  sward  underneath. 

'Twas  brightest  in  a  rainy  day, 

When  all  the  purple  west 
Was  piled  with  fleecy  storm-clouds, 

That  never  seem'd  at  rest; 


320  ANN     S.     STEPHENS. 

When  a  cool  and  lulling  melody 
Fell  from  the  dripping  eaves, 

And  soft  warm  drops  came  pattering 
Upon  the  restless  leaves. 

But,  oh,  the  scene  was  glorious 

When  clouds  were  lightly  riven, 
And  there,  above  my  valley  home, 

Came  out  the  bow  of  heaven; 
And,  in  its  fitful  brilliancy 

Hung  quivering  on  high, 
Like  a  jewell'd  arch  of  paradise 

Reflected  through  the  sky. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  footpath 

My  constant  visits  made, 
Between  the  dear  old  homestead 

And  that  leafy  apple  shade; 
Where  the  flow  of  distant  waters 

Came  with  a  tinkling  sound, 
Like  the  revels  of  a  fairy  band, 

Beneath  the  fragrant  ground. 

I  haunted  it  at  even-tide, 

And  dreamily   would  lie 
And  watch  the  crimson  twilight 

Come  stealing  o'er  the  sky. 
'T  was  sweet  to  see  its  dying  gold 

Wake  up  the  dusky  leaves, 
To  hear  the  swallows  twittering 

Beneath  the  distant  eaves. 

I  have  listen'd  to  the  music, 
A  low  sweet  minstrelsy, 

Breathed  by  a  lonely  night-bird 
That  haunted  that  old  tree, 


ANN     S.     STEPHENS.  321 

Till  my  heart  has  swell'd  with  feelings 

For  which  it  had  no  name, 
A  yearning  love  for  poesy, 

A  thirsting  after  fame. 

I  have  gazed  up  through  the  foliage 

With  dim  and  tearful  eyes, 
And  with  a  holy  reverence 

Dwelt  on  the  changing  skies, 
Till  the  burning  stars  were  peopled 

With  forms  of  spirit-birth, 
And  I've  almost  heard  their  harp-strings 

Reverberate  on  earth. 


SONG. 

LET  me  perish  in  the  early  spring, 

When  thickets  all  are  green  ; 
When  rosy  buds  are  blossoming 

Amid   their  tender  sheen  ; 
When  the  raindrops  and  the  sunshine 

Lie  sleeping  in  the  leaves  ; 
And  swallows  haunt  the  thrifty  vine, 

That  drapes  the  cottage  eaves. 

Let  me  perish  in  the  early  spring, 

The  childhood  of  the  year; 
I  would  not  have  a  gloomy  thing 

Pass  o'er  my  humble  bier  ; 
For  when  a  broken  heart  gives  way, 

In  such  a  world  as  ours, 
'Tis  well  to  let  the  humble  clay 

Pass  gently  with  the  flowers. 


CAROLINE  M.  SAWYER. 

MRS.  SAWYER,  whose  maiden  name  was  Fisher,  was  born  at  New 
ton,  Massachusetts,  in  the  year  1812,  and  lived  there  until  her  marriage 
with  the  Rev.  T.  J.  Sawyer  in  1831.  Her  husband  was  settled  as  a 
pastor  over  a  Presbyterian  church  in  the  city  of  New  York  for  a  num 
ber  of  years,  but  is  now  the  president  of  a  literary  institution  in  Clinton, 
N.  Y.  Mrs.  Sawyer  is  a  lady  of  refined  taste  and  cultivated  mind, 
familiar  with  many  of  the  modern  languages,  and  accustomed  to  write 
translations  from  the  German.  She  takes  a  warm  interest  in  the  edu 
cation  of  the  young;  and  has  published  a  number  of  useful  little  books, 
both  in  prose  and  verse,  for  children.  Her  poems  are  scattered  through 
various  magazines ;  the  following  are  among  her  best. 

EDITH. 

ROBED  in  strange  beauty,  she  comes  back  to  me, 
A  shadowy  vision  from  the  spirit-land ; 

From  eve  till  morn  her  phantom  shape  I  see, 
Beck'ning  me  ever  with  her  moonlight  hand. 

Beloved  Edith!  dost  thou  come  to  breathe 
Once  more  thy  music  on  mine  earthly  ear? 

Around  my  heart  in  passion-folds  to  wreathe 
Mem'ries  that  still  are  all  too  deeply  dear? 

Forbear  the  task!  for  earth  grows  dark  to  me; 

And  shadows,  deeper  than  my  soul  can  bear, 
Sweep  o'er  it  oft,  like  tempests  o'er  the  sea, 

To  leave  all  desolate  and  sunless  there. 

Tell  me,  sweet  spirit!    do  they  pass  away  — 

These  mournful  shadows  —  in  the  land  of  light  ? 

Or  linger  onward  through  the  heavenly  day  — 
The  only  darkness  where  all  else  is  bright? 

(322) 


CAROLINE     M.     SAWYER.  323 

Are  the  unutter'd  yearnings  which  are  nurst 
Here,  by  the  restless  spirit,  answer'd  there  ? 

Hath  heaven  a  fountain  for  the  quenchless  thirst 
Which  through  earth's  weary  pilgrimage  we  bear  ? 

Thy  quest  was  beauty  —  such  as  we  behold 

Not  while  Time's  fetters  clog  the  spirit's  wing: 

A  pure  ethereal  —  thou  didst  spurn  the  mould 
Of  earth,  and  closer  to  the  heavenly  cling. 

In  the  pale  clouds  which  wander  through  the  sky  — 
In  the  bright  stars  that  'mid  their  orbits  burn, 

And  light  the  spirit  through  the  upturn'd  eye  — 
Beauty  thou  saw'st  few  others  can  discern. 

The  first  frail  flowers  —  sweet  nurslings  of  the  spring — 
The  drooping  snow-drop  and  the  violet  fair, 

To  thy  young  heart  a  sudden  thrill  could  bring, 
A  gushing  joy,  too  rapturous  to  bear. 

Yet  did  thy  spirit,  like  a  fetter'd  dove, 

Its  bright  ideal  struggle  still  to  gain; 
Till  the  fond  searcher,  on  the  brow  of  Love, 

Found  it  at  length,  and  broke  its  weary  chain. 

Now,  I  believe,  no  cloud  obscures  thy  sight  — 
No  gliding  spectre  darkly  steps  between 

The  beautiful  and  thee ;  but,  robed  in  light, 
All  thy  soul  yearn'd  for  by  thine  eye  is  seen. 

Ay,  by  the  lustre  of  thy  starry  brow  — 
The  seraph-beauty  on  thy  cheek  imprest  — 

The  joyous  beams  that  through  thy  soft  eyes  glow  — 
Edith !  beloved  !  I  know  that  thou  art  blest. 

Spirit  celestial!  linger  round  me  still, 

With  all  the  beauty  thou  hast  sought  and  found, 

And  the  deep  urn  within  my  bosom  fill 

From  those  blight  rays  which  circle  thee  around. 


324  CAROLINE     M.     SAWYER. 

Thy  quest  is  mine !  and  thou  my  soul  wilt  teach 
Through  what  blest  paths  to  seek  its  lofty  goal ; 

Lead  me  still  on,  and  up,  until  I  reach 
The  land  where  beauty  ever  fills  the  soul! 


THE     BOY     AND     HIS     ANGEL. 

u  OH,  mother,  I  've  been  with  an  angel  to-day ! 
T  was  out,  alone,  in  the  forest  at  play, 
Chasing  after  the  butterflies,  watching  the  bees, 
And  hearing  the  woodpecker  tapping  the  trees ; 
So  I  played,  and  I  played,  till,  so  weary  I  grew, 
I  sat  down  to  rest  in  the  shade  of  a  yew, 
While  the  birds  sang  so  sweetly  high  up  on  its  top, 
I  held  my  breath,  mother,  for  fear  they  would  stop ! 
Thus  a  long  while  I  sat,  looking  up  to  the  sky, 
And  watching  the  clouds  that  went  hurrying  by, 
When  I  heard  a  voice  calling  just  over  my  head, 
That  sounded  as  if  '  come,  oh  brother !'  it  said ; 
And  there,  right  over  the  top  of  the  tree, 
Oh  mother,  an  angel  was  beck'ning  to  me ! 

And,  '  brother !'  once  more,  '  come,  oh  brother !  he  cried, 

And  flew  on  light  pinions  close  down  by  my  side  ! 

And  mother,  oh,  never  was  being  so  bright, 

As  the  one  which  then  beam'd  on  my  wondering  sight ! 

His  face  was  as  fair  as  the  delicate  shell, 

His  hair  down  his  shoulders  in  fair  ringlets  fell, 

His    eyes    resting  on  me,  so  melting  with  love, 

Were  as  soft  and  as  mild  as  the  eyes  of  a  dove! 

j^nd  somehow,  dear  mother,  I  felt  not  afraid, 

As  his  hand  on  my  brow  he  caressingly  laid, 

And  whispered  so  softly  and  gently  to  me, 

'  Come,  brother,  the  angels  are  waiting  for  thee !'    . 


CAROLINE     M.     SAWYER.  3-25 

"  And  then  on  my  forehead  he  tenderly  press'd 

Such  kisses  —  oh,  mother,  they  thrill'd  through  my  breast, 

As  swiftly  as  lightning  leaps  down  from  on  high. 

When  the  chariot  of  God  rolls  along  the  black  sky  ! 

While  his  breath,  floating  round  me,  was  soft  as  the  breeze 

That  play'd  in  my  tresses,  and  rustled  the  trees; 

At  last  on  my  head  a  deep  blessing  he  poured, 

Then  plumed  his  bright  pinions  and  upward  he  soar'd ! 

And  up,  up  he  went,  through  the  blue  sky,  so  far, 

He  seem'd  to  float  there  like  a  glittering  star, 

Yet  still  my  eyes  follow'd  his  radiant  flight, 

Till,  lost  in  the  azure,  he  pass'd  from  my  sight! 

Then,  oh,  how  I  fear'd,  as  I  caught  the  last  gleam 

Of  his  vanishing  form,  it  was  only  a  dream ! 

When  soft  voices  whisper'd  Once  more  from  the  tree, 

'Come,  brother,  the  angels  are  waiting  for  thee !' " 

Oh,  pale  grew  that  mother,  and  heavy  her  heart, 

For  she  knew  her  fair  boy  from  this  world  must  depart ! 

That  his  bright  locks  must  fade  in  the  dust  of  the  tomb 

Ere  the  autumn  winds  withered  the  summer's  rich  bloom! 

Oh,  how  his  young  footsteps  she  watch'd,  day  by  day, 

As  his  delicate  form  wasted  slowly  away, 

Till  the  soft  light  of  heaven  seemed  shed  o'er  his  face, 

And  he  crept  up  to  die  in  her  loving  embrace  ! 

"  Oh,  clasp  me,  dear  mother,   close,  close  to  your  breast, 

On  that  gentle  pillow  again  let  me  rest! 

Let  me  once  more  gaze  up  to  that  dear,  loving  eye, 

And  then,  oh,  methinks,  I  can  willingly  die ! 

Now  kiss  me,  dear  mother !  oh,  quickly  !  for  see. 

The  bright,  blessed  angels  are  waiting  for  me  !" 

Oh,  wild  was  the  anguish  that  swept  through  her  breast, 
As  the  long,  frantic  kiss  on  his  pale  lips  she  press'd  ! 
And  felt  the  vain  search  of  his  soft,  pleading  eye, 
As  it  strove  to  meet  her's  ere  the  fair  boy  could  die. 
28 


326  CAROLINE     M.     SAWYER. 

"  I  see  you  not,  mother,  for  darkness  and  night 

Are  hiding  your  dear  loving  face  from  my  sight  — 

But  I  hear  your  low  sobbings  —  dear  mother,  good  bye' 

The  angels  are  ready  to  bear  me  on  high! 

I  will  wait  for  you  there  —  but,  oh,  tarry  not  long, 

Lest  grief  at  your  absence  should  sadden  my  song !" 

He  ceased,  and  his  hands  meekly  clasp'd  on  his  breast, 

While  his  sweet  face  sank  down  on  its  pillow  of  rest, 

Then,  closing  his  eyes,  now  all  rayless  and  dim, 

Went  up  with  the  angels  that  waited  for  him! 


THE     VALLEY     OF     PEACE. 

It  was  a  beautiful  conception  of  the  Moravians  to  give  to  rural  ceme 
teries  the  appropriate  name  of  "  Valleys'  or  "Fields  of  Peace" 

OH,  come,  let  us  go  to  the  Valley  of  Peace ! 
There  earth's  weary  cares  to  perplex  us  shall  cease ; 
We  will  stray  through  its  solemn  and  far-spreading  shades, 
Till  twilight's  last  ray  from  each  green  hillock  fades. 
There  slumber  the  friends  whom  we  long  must  regret - 
The  forms  whose  mild  beauty  we  cannot  forget! 
We  will  seek  the  low  mounds  where  so  softly  they  sleep, 
And  will  sit  down  and  muse  on  the  idols  we  weep: 
But  we  will  not  repine  that  they  're  hid  from  our  eyes, 
For  we  know  they  still  live  in  a  home  in  the  skies  ; 
But  we  '11  pray  that,  when  life's  weary  journey  shall  cease, 
We  may  slumber  with  them  in  the  Valley  of  Peace  ! 

Oh,  sad  were  our  path  through  this  valley  of  tears, 

If,  when  weary  and  wasted  with  toil  and  with  years, 

No  home  were  prepared,  where  the  pilgrim  might  lay 

Mortality's  cumbering  vestments  away! 

But  sadder,  and  deeper,  and  darker  the  gloom, 

That  would  close  o'er  our  way  as  we  speed  to  the  tomb, 


CAROLINE     M.     SAWYER 


327 


If  faith  pointed  not  to  that  heavenly  goal, 
Where  the  sun  of  eternity  beams  on  the  soul ! 
Oh,  who,  'mid  the  sorrows  and  changes  of  time, 
E'er  dream'd  of  that  holy,  that  happier  clime, 
But  yearn'd  for  the  hour  of  the  spirit's  release  — 
For  a  pillow  of  rest  in  the  Valley  of  Peace ! 

Oh,  come,  thon  pale  mourner,  whose  sorrowing  gaze 

Seems  fix'd  on  the  shadows  of  long  vanish'd  days, 

Sad,  sad  is  thy  tale  of  bereavement  and  woe, 

And  thy  spirit  is  weary  of  life's  garish  show ! 

Come  here  —  I  will  show  thee  a  haven  of  rest, 

Where  sorrow  no  longer  invades  the  calm  breast  — 

Where  the  spirit  throws  off  its  dull  mantle  of  care, 

And  the  robe  is  ne'er  folded  o'er  secret  despair! 

Yet  the  dwelling  is  lonely,  and  silent,  and  cold, 

And  the  soul  may  shrink  back  as  its  portals  unfold; 

But  a  bright  star  has  dawn'd  through  the  shades  of  the  east, 

That  will  light  up  with  beauty  the  Valley  of  Peace! 

Thou  frail  child  of  error!    come  hither  and  say, 

Has  the  world  yet  a  charm  that  can  lure  thee  to  stay? 

Ah,  no!    in  thine  aspect  are  anguish  and  woe, 

And  deep  shame  has  written  its  name  on  thy  brow! 

Poor  outcast!    too  long  hast  thou  wander'd  forlorn, 

In  a  path  where  thy  feet  are  all  gored  with  the  thorn  — 

Where  thy  breast  by  the  fang  of  the  serpent  is  stung, 

And  scorn  on  thy  head  by  a  cold  world  is  flung  ! 

Come  here,  and  find  rest  from  thy  guilt  and  thy  tears, 

And  a  sleep  sweet  as  that  of  thine  innocent  years ! 

We  will  spread  thee  a  couch  where  thy  woes  shall  all  cease, 

Oh,  come  and  lie  down  in  the  Valley  of  Peace ! 

The  grave!    ah,  the  grave!    'tis  a  mighty  strong-hold, 
The  weak,  the  oppress'd,  all  are  safe  in  its  fold! 
There  penury's  toil-wasted  children  may  come, 
And  the  helpless,  the  houseless,  at  last  find  a  home! 


328  CATHERINE     H.     ESLING. 

What  myriads  unnumber'd  have  sought  its  repose, 

Since  the  day  when  the  sun  on  creation  first  rose: 

And  there,  till  earth's  latest,  dread  morning  shall  break, 

Shall  its  wide  generations  their  last  dwelling  make! 

But  beyond  is  a  world  —  how  resplendently  bright! 

And  all  that  have  lived  shall  be  bathed  in  its  light! 

We  shall  rise  —  we  shall  soar  where   earth's   sorrows  shall 

cease, 
Though  our  mortal  clay  rests  in  the  Valley  of  Peace! 


CATHERINE  H.  ESLING. 

THIS  lady,  best  known  as  Miss  Catherine  H.  Waterman,  has  long  been 
an  able  contributor  to  the  periodical  literature  of  the  country,  though 
she  has  never  published  any  books.  Her  poems  are  smoothly  and  grace 
fully  written ;  always  pleasing,  from  the  deep  and  pure  affection  they 
display.  Tender  and  heart-stirring,  indeed,  is  the  pathos  of  that  exqui 
site  strain  —  Brother,  come  home  ! 

Miss  Waterman  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  in  1812,  married  there, 
in  1840,  to  Captain  Esling,  and  has  remained  there  all  her  life;  never 
having  left  her  home  for  a  greater  distance  than  forty  miles,  or  for  a 
longer  period  than  forty-eight  hours.  Well  may  such  a  nestling  bird 
sing  sweetly  of  home's  quiet  joys  ! 

BROTHER,     COME      HOME. 

COME  home, 

Would  1  could  send  my  spirit  o'er  the  deep, 
Would  I  could  wing  it  like  a  bird  to  thee, 
To  commune  with  thy  thoughts,  to  fill  thy  sleep 
With  these  unwearying  words  of  melody ; 
Brother,  come  home. 


CATHERINE     H.     ESLING.  329 

Come  home, 
Come  to  the  hearts  that  love  thee,  to  the  eyes 

That  beam  in  brightness  but  to  gladden  thine, 
Come  where  fond  thoughts  like  holiest  incense  rise. 
Where  cherish'd  memory  rears  her  altar's  shrine; 
Brother,  corne  home. 

Come  home, 
Come  to  the  hearth-stone  of  thy  earlier  days, 

Come  to  the  ark,  like  the  o'er-wearied  dove, 
Come  with  the  sunlight  of  thy  heart's  warm  rays, 
Come  to  the  fire-side  circle  of  thy  love ; 
Brother,  come  home. 

Come  home, 
It  is  not  home  without  thee;  the  lone  seat 

Is  still  unclaim'd  where  thou  were  wont  to  be, 
In  every  echo  of  returning  feet, 

In  vain  we  list  for  what  should  herald  thee ; 
Brother,  come  home. 

Come  home, 
We've  nursed  for  thee  the  sunny  buds  of  spring, 

Watch'd  every  germ  the  full-blown  flowers  rear, 
Seen  o'er  their  bloorn  the  chilly  winter  bring 
Its  icy  garlands,  and  thou  art  not  here ; 
Brother,  come  home. 

Come  home, 
Would  I  could  send  my  spirit  o'er  the. deep, 

Would  I  could  wing  it  like  a  bird  to  thee  — 
To  commune  with  thy  thoughts,  to  fill  thy  sleep 
With  these  unwearying  words  of  melody ; 
Brother,  come  home. 


28 


330  CATHERINE     H.     ESLING. 

HOW     SHALL     I     WOO     THEE? 

How  shall  I  woo  thee,  tell  me  how  ? 

With  looks  and  words  of  gladness ; 
Then  gaze  not  on  my  pale,  pale  brow, 

Nor  note  my  tones  of  sadness. 

How  shall  I  woo  thee  ?  with  a  smile 
That  speaks  the  bosom  clear; 

Look  not  upon  mine  eyes  the  while, 
Nor  mark  the  starting  tear. 

How  shall  I  woo  thee  ?    with  the  bright 
And  blessed  words  of  joy  ? 

Drive  from  my  heart  its  long,  long  night, 
Its  early  life's  alloy. 

How  shall  I  woo  thee,  tell  me  how  ? 

Will  sorrow  make  thee  mine  ? 
Can  the  sad  heart  I  bring  thee  now 

Find  favour  at  thy  shrine  ? 

How  shall  I  woo  thee  ?  with  a  gleam 

That  glistens  but  to  die, 
Fleet  as  the  summer's  moonlight  beam 

Upon  an  evening  sky  ? 

How  shall  I  woo  thee  ?   as  the  night 

Woos  with  its  silver  dew 
The  faithless  flowers,  that  burst  to  light, 

Beneath  the  sun's  bright  hue  ? 

How  shall  I  woo  thee,  tell  me  how  ? 

If  thou  hast  aught  of  care 
To  dim  the  glory  of  thy  brow, 

Let  me  thy  sadness  share. 

How  shall  I  woo  thee  ?  with  a  strain 
Like  that  of  other  times  ? 


CATHERINE     H.     ESLING.  331 

And  seek  thro'  memory's  caves  again, 
Hope's  sweet  delusive  chimes. 

How  shall  I  woo  thee,  tell  me  how  ? 

Can  sorrow  make  thee  mine  ? 
For  a  sad  heart  hath  come  to  bow, 

And  worship  at  thy  shrine. 


HE    WAS    OUR    FATHER'S    DARLING 

HE  was  our  father's  darling, 

A  bright  and  happy  boy;  — 
His  life  was  like  a  summer's  day 

Of  innocence  and  joy. 
His  voice,  like  singing  waters, 

Fell  softly  on  the  ear, 
So  sweet,  that  hurrying  echo 

Might  linger  long  to  hear. 

He  was  our  mother's  cherub, 

Her  life's  untarnish'd  light, 
Her  blessed  joy  by  morning, 

Her  vision'd  hope  by  night. 
His  eyes  were  like  the  day-beams 

That  brighten  all  below ; 
His  ringlets  like  the  gather'd  gold 

Of  sunset's  gorgeous  glow. 

He  was  our  sister's  plaything, 

A  happy  child  of  glee, 
That  frolick'd  on  the  parlour  floor, 

Scarce  higher  than  our  knee. 
His  joyous  bursts  of  pleasure 

Were  wild  as  mountain  wind ; 
His  laugh,  the  free  unfetter'd  laugh 

Of  childhood's  chainless  mind. 


L. 


332  LAURA     M.     THURSTON 

He  was  our  brothers'  treasure, 

Their  bosom's  only  pride ; 
A  fair  depending  blossom, 

By  their  protecting  side. 
A  thing  to  watch  and  cherish, 

With  varying  hopes  and  fears; 
To  make  the  slender  trembling  reed 

Their  staff  for  future  years. 

He  is  —  a  blessed  angel, 

His  home  is  in  the  sky; 
He  shines  among  those  living  lights, 

Beneath  his  Maker's  eye. 
A  freshly  gather'd  lily, 

A  bud  of  early  doom, 
Hath  been  transplanted  from  the  earth, 

To  bloom  beyond  the  tomb. 


LAURA  M.  THURSTON. 

MRS.  THURSTON,  daughter  of  Mr.  Earl  P.  Haw  ley,  was  born  at  Nor 
folk,  Connecticut,  in  December,  1812.  She  was  educated  at  the  Hart 
ford  Female  Seminary,  and  after  leaving  it  was  engaged  for  some  years 
as  a  teacher  in  various  places,  until,  through  the  recommendation  of 
Mr.  John  P.  Brace,  (principal  of  the  Hartford  Seminary,)  she  was  invited 
to  take  charge  of  a  school  at  New-Albany,  Indiana.  In  September,  1839, 
she  became  the  wife  of  Franklin  Thurston,  a  merchant  of  that  place, 
where  she  resided  until  her  death,  in  July,  1842.  Her  poems  appeared 
from  time  to  time  in  the  periodicals  under  the  signature  of  Viola,  and 
she  sang  forth  her  feelings  with  a  melodious  voice,  which  never  failed 
to  find  an  echo  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  heard  it 


LAURA     M.     THURSTON.  333 


THE     GREEN     HILLS     OF     MY     FATHER-LAND 

THE  green  hills  of  my  Father-land 

In  dreams  still  greet  my  view  ; 
I  see  once  more  the  wave-girt  strand, 

The  ocean-depth  of  blue, 
The  sky,  the  glorious  sky,  outspread 

Above  their  calm  repose, 
The  river,  o'er  its  rocky  bed 

Still  singing  as  it  flows, 
The  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  hours, 

When  men  go  up  to  pray, 
The  sunlight  resting  on  the  flowers, 
The  birds  that  sing  among  the  bowers, 

Through  all  the  summer  day. 

Land  of  my  birth !  my  early  love  ! 

Once  more  thine  airs   I  breathe ! 
I  see  thy  proud  hills  tower  above, 

The  green  vales  sleep  beneath, 
Thy  groves,  thy  rocks,  thy  murmuring  rills, 

All  rise  before  mine  eyes, 
The  dawn  of  morning  on  thy  hills, 

The  gorgeous  sunset  skies ; 
Thy  forests,  from  whose  deep  recess 

A  thousand  streams  have  birth, — 
Gladdening  the  lonely  wilderness, 
And  filling  the  green  silentness 

With  melody  and  mirth. 

I  wonder  if  my  home  would  seem 

As  lovely  as  of  yore ! 
I  wonder  if  the  mountain  stream 

Goes  singing  by  the  door, 
And  if  the  flowers  still  bloom  as  fair, 


334  LAURA     M.     THURSTON. 

And  if  the  woodbines  climb, 
As  when  I   i  sed  to  train  them  there, 

In  the  dear  olden  time ! 
I  wonder  if  the  birds  still  sing 

Upon  the  garden  tree, 
As  sweetly  as  in  that  sweet  spring 
Whose  golden  memories  gently  bring 

So  many  dreams  to  me ! 

I  know  that  there  hath  been  a  change, 

A  change  o'er  hall  and  hearth, 
Faces  and  footsteps  new  and  strange, 

About  my  place  of  birth ! 
The  heavens  above  are  still  as  bright 

As  in  the  days  gone  by ; 
But  vanished  is  the  beacon-light 

That  cheer'd  my  morning  sky ! 
And  hill,  and  vale,  and  wooded  glen, 

And  rock,  and  murmuring  stream, 
That  wore  such  glorious  beauty  then, 
Would  seem,  should  I  return  again, 

The  record  of  a  dream ! 

I  mourn  not  for  my  childhood's  hours, 

Since,  in  the  far-off  West, 
'JVeath  summer  skies,  and  greener  bowers, 

My  heart  hath  found  its  rest. 
I  mourn  not  for  the  hills  and  streams 

That  chain'd  my  steps  so  long, 
Yet  still  I  see  them  in  my  dreams, 

And  hail  them  in  my  song, 
And  often,  by  the  hearth-fire's  blaze, 

When  winter  eves  are  come, 
We  '11  sit  and  talk  of  other  days, 
And  sing  the  well-remember'd  lays 

Of  my  Green  Mountain  home ! 


LAURA     M.     THURSTON.  335 


THE     SLEEPER. 

SHE  sleepeth  ;  and  the  summer  breezes'  sighing, 
Shedding  the  green  leaves  on  the  fountain's  breast, 

And  the  low  murmur  of  the  stream  replying 
Unto  their  melody,  break  not  her  rest. 

She  sleepeth,  while  the  evening  dews  are  falling 
In  glittering  showers  upon  her  lowly  bed  ; 

And  the  lone  night-bird,  to  his  fellow  calling, 
Sweet  echo  wakes  —  but  wakens  not  the  dead. 

She  sleepeth ;  and  the  moonlight  too  is  sleeping 
In  calm,  clear  radiance  on  that  hallow'd  spot; 

As  if  that  turf  ne'er  bore  the  train  of  weeping, 
As  if  the  dead  were  evermore  forgot. 

She  sleepeth ;  deep  and  dreamless  in  her  slumber, 
She  will  not  waken  wrhen  the  morning  breaks ; 

No  —  time  a  weary  catalogue  shall  number 
Of  vanish'd  years,  ere  she  again  awakes. 

I  know  thy  home  is  lonely  —  that  thy  dwelling 
No  more  shall  echo  to  that  loved  one's  tread ; 

I  know  too  well  thy  widow'd  heart  is  swelling 
With  secret  grief;  yet  weep  not  for  the  dead. 

She  yet  shall  waken  on  that  morning1  glorious, 
When  day  shall  evermore  displace  the  night, 

O'er  time  and  change,  and  pain  and  death  victorious, 
A  holy  seraph  in  the  land  of  light. 

Yes,  she  shall  waken ;  not  to  gloom  and  sorrow, 
Not  to  the  blight  of  care,  the  thrill  of  pain, 

Wake  to  the  day  that  ne'er  shall  know  a  morrow. 
To  life  that  shall  not  yield  to  death  again. 


336  MARTHA     DAY. 

She  rests  in  peace;  for  her  forbear  thy  weeping; 

Thou  soon  shall  meet  her  in  the  world  on  high! 
The  care-worn  form  in  yonder  grave  is  sleeping, 

But  the  freed  spirit  lives  beyond  the  sky. 


MARTHA  DAY. 

THIS  sweet  and  gifted  girl  was  born  in  New  Haven,  on  the  13th  of 
February,  1813.  Her  father,  Jeremiah  Day,  D.  D.,  L.L.  D.,  President 
of  Yale  College,  who  early  saw  in  her  the  evidences  of  very  superior 
talent,  spared  no  pains  in  giving  her  an  excellent  education.  He 
placed  her  first  under  the  care  of  the  Rev.  Claudius  Herrick,  who  kept 
a  school  for  young  ladies  in  New  Haven ;  then  at  a  boarding-school  in 
Greenfield,  Massachusetts,  as  an  assistant-teacher  as  well  as  pupil, 
under  the  charge  of  the  Rev.  Henry  Jones;  and  afterwards  for  one  year 
at  the  Young  Ladies'  Institute,  in  her  native  town.  After  leaving  school, 
she  diligently  continued  her  studies;  became  a  proficient  in  Mathe 
matics  and  Mental  Philosophy,  understood  the  Latin,  Greek,  French, 
and  Gorman  languages,  and  was  well-grounded  in  solid  English  lite 
rature.  Her  high  attainments  and  rich  native  talents  gave  promise  of 
her  being  a  useful  member  of  society,  and  a  bright  ornament  to  her  sex ; 
but  in  1933,  at  the  early  age  of  twenty,  she  was  suddenly  snatched 
away  by  that  strong  hand  whose  power  none  can  resist.  A  small  volume 
of  her  Literary  Remains  was  published  in  New  Haven,  the  year  after 
her  death.  It  contained,  besides  other  writings,  all  her  poems  which 
had  been  preserved  ;  but  she  wrote  hastily,  and  was  never  satisfied  with 
her  poetical  efforts,  consequently  not  careful  to  keep  them. 

The  following  beautiful  and  eloquent  hymn  displays  a  sublimity  of 
thought  and  strength  of  expression  most,  remarkable  in  so  young  a 
person.  No  one  can  read  it  without  feeling  a  sincere  respect  for  the 
author,  and  a  deep  regret  at  the  early  removal  of  talent  so  worthily 
directed. 


MARTHA     DAY.  337 


HYMN. 

FATHER  Almighty! 
From  thy  high  seat  thou  watchest  and  controllest 

The  insects  that  upon  thy  footstool  creep, 
While,  with  a  never-wearied  hand,  thou  rollest 

Millions  of  worlds  along  the  boundless  deep. 
Oh,  Father!  now  the  clouds  hang  blackening  o'er  us, 

And  the  dark  boiling  deeps  beneatli  us  yawn ; 
Scatter  the  tempests,  quell  the  waves  before  us. 

To  the  wild  fearful  night  send  thou  a  blessed  dawn. 


Father  All  Holy! 
When   thou  shalt  sit  upon  thy  throne  of  glory, 

The  steadfast  earth,  the  strong  untiring  sea, 
Their  verdant  i^les,  their  mountains  high  and  hoary, 

With  awe  and  fear,  shall  from   thy  presence  flee. 
Then  shalt  thou  sit  a  Judge,  the  guilty  dooming 

To  adamantine  chains  and  endless  fire ; 
Oh   Father !  how  may  we  abide  thy  coming, 

Where  find  a  shelter  from  the  pure  Jehovah's  ire  ? 

Father  All  Merciful ! 
Still  may  the  guilty  come  in  peace  before  thee, 

Bathing  thy  feet  with  tears  of  love  and  woe ; 
And  while  for  pardon  only  we  implore  thee, 

Blessings  divine,  unn'umber'd,  o'er  us   flow. 
Father,  her  heart  from  all  hor  idols  tearing, 

Thine  erring  child  a«rain  would   turn  to  thee; 
To  thee  she  bends,  trembling,  yet  not  despairing, — 

From  fear,  remorse,  and  sin,  oh,  Father!  set  her  free! 


29  w 


MARY  ANN  H.  DODD 

WAS  born  at  Hartford,  in  March,  1813,  and  educated  alternately  at 
Wethersfield,  and  in  her  native  town.  Her  productions  first  appeared 
in  1834,  in  the  Hermethenean,  a  magazine  conducted  by  the  students 
of  Washington  College,  Hartford.  Since  that  time  she  has  been  a 
frequent  contributor  to  the  Ladies'  Repository,  a  Boston  periodical,  and 
to  the  Rose  of  Sharon,  an  annual  edited  by  the  late  Mrs.  Mayo,  whose 
poems  are  quoted  in  another  part  of  this  volume.  She  possesses  a 
poetical  sensibility,  and  the  power  of  deducing  moral  lessons  from  the 
changes  of  life. 


THE    DREAMER. 

"A  dark,  cold  calm,  which  nothing  now  can  break, 
Or   warm,  or  brighten;   like  that  Syrian  lake, 
Upon   whose  surface  Morn  and  Summer  shed 
Their  smiles  in  vain,  for  all  beneath  is  dead." 

HEART  of  mine,  why  art  thou  dreaming! 

Dreaming  through  the  weary  day, 
While  life's  precious  hours  are  wasting, 

Fast,  and  unimproved,  away  ? 

With  a  world  of  beauty  round  me, 

Lone  and  sad  I  dwell  apart; 
Changing  scenes  can  bring  no  pleasure 

To  this  wrecked  and  worn-out  heart. 

Now  I  tempt  the  quiet  Ocean 

While  the  sky  is  bright  above, 
And  the  sunlight  rests  around  me, 

Like  the  beaming  smile  of  Love. 

(338) 


MARY      ANN     H.     DODD.  339 

Or  by  streamlet  softly  flowing 

Through  the  vale  I  wander  now; 
And  the  balmy  breath  of  Summer 

Fans  my  cheek  and  cools  my  brow. 

But  as  well,  to  me,  might  darken 

Over  all  the  gloom  of  night; 
For  no  quick  and  sweet  sensations 

Fill  my  soul  with  new  delight. 

In  the  grass-grown  silent  church-yard, 

With  a  listless  step,  I  rove; 
And  I  shed  no  tear  of  sorrow 

By  the  graves  of  those  I  love. 

Could  I  weep  the  spell  might  vanish, 

Tears  would  bring  my  heart  relief; 
Heart  so  sealed  to  all  emotion, 

Dead  alike  to  joy  and  grief. 

When  the  storm  that  shook  my  spirit 

Left  its  mission  finish'd  there, 
Then  a  calm  more  fearful  folio  w'd 

Than  the  wildness  of  despair. 

Whence  the  spell  that  chills  my  being, 

Bidding  every  passion  cease; 
Closing  every  fount  of  feeling  ? 

Say,  my  spirit,  is  it  peace  ? 

Wake,  oh  spell-bound  soul,  awaken, 

Bid  this  sad  delusion  flee, 
Such  a  lengthen'd  dream  is  fearful; 

Such  a  peace  is  not  for  thee. 

Life  is  thine,  and  "  life  is  earnest," 

Toil  and  grief  thou  canst  not  shun, 
But  be  hopeful  and  believing, 

Till  the  prize  of  faith  is  won. 


340  MARY     ANN     H.     DODD. 

Then  the  peace  thou  shalt  inherit 
By  the  Saviour  promised  free; 

Peace  the  world  destroyeth  never, — 
Father,  give  that  peace  to  me  ! 


THE     M  O  U  RNE  R. 

"Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for  they  shall  be  comforted." — Matt.  v.  4. 

THOU  weepest  for  a  sister !     In  the  bloom 

And  spring-time  of  her  years  to  Death  a  prey, 
Shrouded  from  love  by  the  remorseless  tomb, 

Taken  from  all  life's  joys  and  griefs  away. 
'Tis  hard  to  part  with  one  so  sudden  call'd, 

So  young,  so  happy,  and  so  dearly  loved ; 
To  see  the  arrow  at  our  idol  hurPd, 

And  vainly  pray  the  shaft  may  be  removed. 

Young,  loving,  and  beloved  \   oh  cruel  Death ! 

Couldst  thou  not  spare  the  treasure  for  a  while  ? 
There  are  warm  hearts  that  wait  to  yield  their  breath, 

And  aged  eyes  that  can  no  longer  smile. 
Why  pass  the  weary  pilgrims  on  their  way 

Bow'd  down  with  toil,  and  sighing  for  relief; 
To  make  the  blossom  in  its  pride  thy  prey, 

Whose  joyous  heart  had  never  tasted  grief? 

Sad  sister,  turn  not  hopelessly  away ; 

Nor  longer  at  the  will  of  heaven  repine; 
Fold  not  thy  hands  in  agony  and  say 

"  There  is  no  sorrow  in  the  world  like  mine." 
Oh !    could  my   numbers   soothe  the  sinking  soul, 

Or  one  hope  waken  with  the  wreath  I  twine, 
Soft  sounds  of  sympathy  should  round  thee  roll 

Warm  from  a  heart  that  knows  such  pain  as  thine! 


MARY     ANN     H.     DODD.  341 

J  too,  have  been  a  mourner.     Sorrow  deep 

Its  lava-tide  around  my  pathway  roll'd ; 
And  sahle  weeds  a  hue  could  never  keep, 

Sad  as  the  heart  they  hid  beneath  their  fold. 
All  joy  grew  dim  before  my  tearful  eye, 

Which  but  the  shadow  of  the  grave  could  see ; 
There  was  no  brightness  in  the  earth  or  sky, 

There  was  no  sunshine  in  the  world  for  me. 

Oh  !  bitter  was  the  draught  from  sorrow's  cup, 

And  stern  the  anguish  which  my  spirit  wrung, 
When  I  was  call'd  to  give  my  idol  up, 

And  bend  a  mourner  o'er  the  loved  and  young. 
And  for  the  lost  to  weep  is  still  my  choice ; 

I  ask  for  one  whose  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 
And  vainly  listen  for  a  vanish'd  voice, 

Whose  pleasant  tones  shall  greet  my  ear  no  more. 

There  is  a  spell  around  my  spirit  cast, 

A  shadow  where  the  sunbeam  smiled  before  j 
'Tis  grief,  but  all  its  bitterness  is  past; 

'T  is  sorrow,  but  its  murmurings  are  o'er. 
Within  my  soul,  which  to  the  storm  was  bow'd, 

Now  the  white  wing  of  Peace  is  folded  deep ; 
And  I  have  found,  I  trust,  behind  the  cloud, 

The  blessing  promised  to  the  eyes  that  weep. 

So  thou  wilt  rind  relief.     For  deepest  woe 

A  fount  of  healing  in  our  pathway  springs ; 
Like  Lethe's  stream,  that  silver  fountain's  flow 

A  soothing  draught  unto  the  sufferer  brings. 
A  Father  chastened  thee !  oh,  look  to  Him, 

And  his  dear  love  in  all  thy  trials  see ; 
Look  with  the  eye  of  faith  through  shadows  dim, 

And  he  will  send  "  the  Comforter "  to  thee. 

29* 


MARY  E.  HEWITT. 

MARY  ELIZABETH  MOORE  was  born  in  Maiden,  Massachusetts,  a 
rural  village  not  far  from  Boston.  Her  father  was  a  farmer,  a  man  of 
cultivation  and  refinement.  Her  mother  (a  descendant  of  an  old 
and  honourable  family  in  Kent,  England,)  was  left  a  widow  at  an 
early  age ;  and,  that  she  might  have  better  advantages  for  the  education 
of  her  children,  immediately  removed  to  Boston.  In  this  city  Miss 
Moore  resided  until  her  marriage  with  Mr.  James  L.  Hewitt  of  New 
York,  (well-known  as  an  extensive  publisher  of  music,)  which  has  been 
her  home  ever  since.  In  1846,  a  selection  of  her  poems  was  published, 
under  the  title  of  Songs  of  our  Land,  an  elegant  little  book  containing 
many  choice  strains  of  genuine  poetry.  For  several  years  Mrs.  Hewitt 
has  contributed  to  the  periodical  literature  of  the  day.  Her  thoughts 
are  lofty  and  majestic;  her  taste  correct  and  classic;  her  utterance 
always  clear  and  strong,  yet  delicately  sweet.  The  following  poems 
are  a  fair  specimen  of  her  talent,  and  show  that  her  chief  character 
istic  is  a  concentrated  intensity  of  passion. 


LAMENT    OF    JOSEPHINE. 

"They  parted  as  all  lovers  part  — 
She   with   her   wrong'd   and  breaking  heart; 

But  he,   rejoicing   lie   is  free, 
Bounds   like   the  captive   from  his  chain, 

And    wilfully  believing  she 
Hath  found  her  liberty  again."  —  L.  E.  L. 

THE  EMPRESS!  —  what's  to  me  the  empty  name! 

This  regal  state  —  this  glittering  pageant-life  ? 
A  tinselPd  cheat!  —  Am  I  not  crown'd  with  shame? 

Shorn  of  my  glorious  name,  NAPOLEON'S  WIFE  ! 
Set  with  a  bauble  here  to  play  my  part, 
And  shroud  with  veil  of  pomp  my  breaking  heart. 

(342) 


MARY     E.     HEWITT.  343 

'Tis  mockery!  — thought  is  with  the  days  ere  thou, 
Seeking  the  world's  love,  unto  mine  grew  cold  — 

Ere  yet  the  diadem  entwined  my  brow, 

Tightening  around  my  brain  its  serpent  fold  — 

When  each  quick  life-pulse  throbbed,  unschool'd  of  art, 

When  my  wide  empire  was  Napoleon's  heart! 

My  spirit  quails  before  this  loneliness  — 

Why  did  no  warning  thought  within  me  rise, 

Telling  thy  hand   would  stay  its  fond  caress 
To  wreathe  the  victim  for  the  sacrifice! 

That  joy,  the  dove  so  to  my  bosom  prest, 

Would  change  to  this  keen  vulture  at  my  breast! 

Parted  forever!— who  hath  dared  make  twain 

Those  HE  hath  join'd?  — the  nation's  mighty  voice! 

And  thou  hast  bounded  forward  from  thy  chain, 
Like  the  freed  captive,  — therefore,  heart!  rejoice 

Above  the  ashes  of  thy  hopes,  that  he 

Hath  o'er  their  ruin  leapt  to  liberty! 


ALONE. 

Seul,  chevcbant  clans  1'espace  un  point  qui  me  reponde. 

THERE  lies  a  deep  and  sealed  well 

Within  yon  leafy  forest  hid; 
Whose  pent  and  lonely  waters  swell, 

Its  confines  chill  and  drear  amid. 

It  hears  the  birds  on  every  spray 

Thrill  forth  melodious  notes  of  love ; 

It  feels  the  warm  sun's  seldom  ray 
Glance  on  the  stone  its  wave  above. 


344  MARY     E.     HEWITT. 

And  quick  the  gladdenM  waters  rush 
Tumultuous  upward  to  the  brink; 

A  seal  is  on  their  joyous  gush, 

And  back,  repress'd,  they  coldly  shrink. 

Thus  in  their  cavern'd  space,  apart, 

Closed  from  the  eye  of  day,  they  dwell 

So,  prison'd  deep  within  my  heart, 
The  tides  of  quick  affection  swell. 

Each  kindly  glance  —  each  kindly  tone, 
To  joy  its  swift  pulsations  sway; 

But  none  may  lift  the  veiling  stone, 
And  give  the  franchised  current  way. 

Smite  THOU  the  rock,  whose  eye  alone 
The  hidden  spring  within  may  see; 

And  bid  the  flood,  resistless  One! 
Flow  forth,  rejoicing,  unto  thee. 


BLESS    THEE. 

1   MAY  not  break  the  holy  spell 

Thy  beauty  wove  around  me, 
Till  time  shall  loose  the  silver  cord 

That  long  to  earth  hath  bound  me. 
I  see  thee  smile  on  loftier  ones, 

And  mark  the  proud  caress  thee ; 
yet  when  my  lips  would  ope  to  curse, 

They  never  fail  to  bless  thee. 

One  memory  round  me  everywhere, 
One  task  in  silence  set  me  — 

The   ever,  ever  thinking  on, 
And  striving  to  forget  thee. 


MARY     E  .      HEWITT.  345 

And  though  the  ever-goading  thought 

To  madness  thus  oppress  me, 
I  may  not  curse  —  I  cannot  hate  — 

My  heart  still  whispers,  "  Bless  thee!" 


THE  LAST  CHANT  OF  CORINNE. 

BY  that  mysterious  sympathy  which  chaineth 

For  evermore  my  spirit  unto  thine; 
And  by  the  memory,  that  alone  remaineth, 

Of  that  sweet  hope  that  now  no  more  is  mine; 
And  by  the  love  my  trembling  heart  betrayeth, 

That,  born  of  thy  soft  gaze,  within  me  lies  ; 
As  the  lone  desert  bird,  the  Arab  sayeth, 

Warms  her  young  brood  to  life  with  her  fond  eyes. 

Hear  me,  adored  one  !  though  the  world  divide  us, 

Though  never  more  my  hand  in  thine  be  prest, 
Though  to  commingle  thought  be  here  denied  us, 

Till  our  high  hearts  shall  beat  themselves  to  rest ; 
Forget  me  not !  forget  me  not !  oh !  ever 

This  one,  one  prayer,  my  spirit  pours  to  thee ; 
Till  every  memory  from  earth  shall  sever, 

Remember,  oh,  beloved !  remember  me  ! 

And  when  the  light  within  rny  eye  is  shaded, 

When  I,  o'er-wearied,  sleep  the  sleep  profound, 
And,  like  that  nymph  of  yore,  who  droop'd  and  faded, 

And  pined  for  love,  till  she  became  a  sound  ; 
My  song,  perchance,  awhile  to  earth  remaining, 

Shall  come  in  murmur'd  melody  to  thee  ; 
Then  let  my  lyre's  deep,  passionate  complaining, 

Cry  to  thy  heart,  beloved!  remember  me! 


346  MARY     E.     HEWITT. 

GREEN      PLACES     IN     THE      CITY. 

YE  fill  my  heart  with  gladness,  verdant  places, 

That  'mid  the  City  greet  me,  where  1  pass; 
Methinks  I  see  of  angel-steps  the  traces, 

Where'er  upon  my  pathway  springs  the  grass. 
I  pause  before  your  gates  at  early  morning, 

When  lies  the  sward  with  glittering  sheen  o'erspread; 
And  think  the  dew-drops  there  each  blade  adorning, 

Are  angel's  tears  for  mortal  frailty  shed. 

And  ye  —  earth's  firstlings  —  here  in  beauty  springing, 

Erst  in  your  cells  by  careful  winter  nursed  — 
And  to  the  morning  heaven  your  incense  flinging, 

As  at  His  smile  ye  forth  in  gladness  burst  — 
How  do  ye  cheer  with  hope  my  lonely  hour, 

When  on   my  way  I  tread  despondingly ; 
With   thought  that  HE  who  careth  for  the  flower, 

Will,  in  His  mercy,  still  remember  me. 

Breath  of  our  nostrils  —  THOU!  whose  love  embraces  — 

Whose  light  shall  never  from  our  souls  depart, 
Beneath  thy  touch  hath  sprung  a  green  oasis 

Amid  the  arid  desert  of  my  heart. 
Thy  sun  and  rain  call  forth  the  bud  of  promise, 

And   with  fresh  leaves  in  spring  time  deck  the  tree; 
That  where  man's  hand   hath  shut  out  nature  from  us, 

We,  by  these  glimpses,  may  remember  THEE! 

THE     OCEAN-TIDE     TO     THE     RIVULET. 

MY  voice  is  hoarse  with  calling  to  the  deep, 
While,  as  I  bore  me  on  with  measured  sweep 

To  where  beneath  the  jutting  cape   I  rest, 
The  warring  night-winds  smote  upon  my  way, 
And  the  fierce  lightnings  join'd  in  wild  affray, 

And  hurl'd  their  fiery  javelins  at  my  breast. 


MARY     E.     HEWITT.  347 

Night  —  and  abroad  there  moves  no  living  thing! 
Sunk  on  her  nest  the  sea-gull  folds  her  wing, 

The  bearded  goat  hath  left  the  cliff  on  high, — 
Of  thy  fair  feet  the  parch'd  sand  bears  no  trace  — 
Beloved  !  I  wait  thee  at  our  meeting  place, 

I  call,  but  echo  gives  alone  reply. 

To  what  far  thicket  have  thy  light  steps  won  ? 
Shunning  the  rude  gaze  of  the  amorous  sun, 

In  what  dark  fountain  doth  thy  sweetness  hide? 
No  star  shines  through  the  rift  in  yonder  sky  — 
None  may  behold  thee  where  thou  wanderest  by  — 

Bound  from  thy  lurking  forth  my  woodland  bride! 

Sadly  the  flowers  their  faded  petals  close, 
Where  on  thy  banks  they  languidly  repose, 

Waiting  in  vain  to  hear  thee  onward  press ; 
And  pale  Narcissus  by  thy  margin  side 
Hath  lingered  for  thy  coming,  droop'd,  and  died, 

Pining  for  thee,  amid  the  loneliness. 

Hasten,  beloved!  here,  'neath    the    o'erhanging  rock, — 
Hark !  from  the  deep  my  anxious  hope  to  mock, 

They  call  me  backward  to  my  parent  main, — 
Brighter  than  Thetis  thou!  and  how  more  fleet  — 
I  hear  the  rushing  of  thy  fair,  white  feet, 

Joy! — joy!  —  my  breast  receives  its  own  again! 

THE     PRAYER     OF     A     THIRSTING     HEART. 

"Give   me   a  blessing.     Thou   hast  given  me  a  south    land;   give   me 
also  springs  of  water." — Judges,  i.  15. 

THOU  unto  whom  my  cry  ascends  in  anguish, 
Where  couch'd  among  the  flowers   I  pining  lie ; 

Behold,  how  'mid  their  odorous  scents   I  languish — 
Hear  my  prayer!     Hear!  and  answer,  or   I   die! 


348  MARY     E  .     HEWITT. 

Within  the  land  thou  giv'st  me  to  inherit, 

Where  evermore  the  fragrant  South   wind  blows, 

J  dwell   with  heart  of  flame  and  thirsting-  spirit  — 
For  here  no  well  of  cooling  water  flows. 

Where  the  sweet  rills  through  earth's  deep  veins  are  flowing, 
The  lily  at  some  hidden  spring  is  nursed; 

On  its  frail  stem  the  asphodel  is  blowing, 
While   I,  thy  child,  I  perish  here  of  thirst! 

Thou  who,  when  pale  affliction's  sons  and  daughters 
Came  to  Bethesda's  healing  font  to  lave, 

Saw  where  they   watch'd  beside  the  silent  waters, 
And  sent  an  angel  down  to  touch  the  wave  — 

Thou  who,  when  wandering  Israel,  parched  and  dying, 

Unto  the  prophet  cried  in  sore  distress, 
Heard,  and  in  mercy  to  their  plaint  replying, 

Bade  the  flood  gush  amid  the  wilderness  — 

Hear  me !     To  Thee  my  soul  in  suppliance  turneth, 
Like  the  lorn  pilgrim  on  the  sands  accursed ; 

For  life's  sweet  waters,  God!  my  spirit  yearneth  — 
Give  me  to  drink!     I  perish  here  of  thirst! 


MIDNIGHT     ON     MARATHON. 

(A     GREEK     SUPERSTITION.) 

WHEN  midnight  to  the  peasant  yields 
The  meed  from  labour  won, 

'T  is  said  the  sleeping  legions  rise 
On  storied  Marathon. 

Their  banner,  with  its  sacred  bird 

Flung  proudly  to  the  sky, 
Down  sweeps  again  the  Athenian  host, 

To  conquer,  or  to  die. 


MARY     E.     HEWITT.  349 

Again  the  air-forged  falchion  cleaves 

The  turban  of  the  Mede, 
And  sinks  beneath  the  shadowy  spear 

The  Persian  and  his  steed. 

Amid  the  pale,  contending  hosts 

The  watcher  may  behold 
The  shade  of  THESEUS  lead  the  fight, 

As  on  that  day  of  old.* 

The  rush  of  spectral  war  is  heard, 

And  clearly  on  the  breeze 
Comes  from  the  fiercely-charging  band 

The  cry,  "  MILTIADES  !" 

Where'er  that  glorious  shape  appears, 

Wherever  sounds  that  cry, 
Again  the  phantom  cohorts  reel, 

Again  they  turn  and  fly. 

They  fly,  as  from  that  field  of  gore 

The  smitten  Asian  fled; 
And  Marathon  lies  calm  once  more, 

Above  her  silent  dead. 

And  thou,  when  darkness  o'er  thee  lies, 

And  fears  to  being  start ; 
And  strong  conflicting  memories  rise 

From  that  deep  grave,  the  heart  — 

Oh  Soul!   appall'd  with  doubt  and  dread, 

How  would  all  terrors  fly, 
Were  FAITH  thy  leader  in  the  fight, 

And  "  CHRIST"  thy  battle-cry? 


*  "It  was  an  ancient  superstition,  not  uncharacteristic  of  that  imagina 
tive  people,  that  many  of  them  (at  the  battle  of  Marathon)  fancied  "they 
beheld  the  gigantic  shade  of  their  ancestral  Theseus,  completely  armed, 
and  bearing  down  before  them,  upon  the  foe." — Athens  :  Its  Rise  and  Fall 

30 


ANNA  PEYRE  DINNIES 

Is  a  native  of  Georgetown,  South  Carolina.  Her  father,  Judge 
Shackieford,  removed  to  Charleston  when  she  was  very  young,  and 
there  she  was  educated  at  an  excellent  seminary  kept  by  the 
daughters  of  Dr.  David  Ramsay.  In  May,  1830,  she  was  mar 
ried  to  Mr.  John  C.  Dinnies,  and  went  to  St.  Louis,  Missouri,  where 
she  resided  until  about  two  years  ago,  when  her  husband  removed  to 
New  Orleans.  Few,  if  any,  of  her  poems  were  published  before  her 
marriage;  but  since  that  event,  she  has  written  much  for  various 
annuals  and  magazines,  under  the  name  of  Mnina.  Some  of  her  best 
stories  have  appeared  in  the  Lady's  Book,  (edited  by  Mrs.  Hale,)  and 
in  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger.  In  1845,  Mrs.  Dinnies  published 
a  handsome  volume  of  poetry,  called  The  Floral  Year,  which  is  beau 
tifully  illustrated,  and  contains  many  bright  blossoms  of  fancy,  and  many 
everlasting  flowers  of  pure  and  earnest  feeling.  It  is  from  the  heart 
she  gains  her  strongest  inspiration ;  and  when  the  holy  affection  living 
there  breathes  itself  out  in  fervent  lays,  as  if  urged  by  a  strong  neces 
sity,  there  is  a  simple  pathos  in  the  music  of  her  lyre  that  awakens  an 
immediate  sympathy.  There  is  also  a  spirit  of  cheerfulness  and  hope 
about  her  poems  that  makes  them  very  refreshing;  a  tone  of  quiet  con 
tent  that  seems  to  indicate  a  mind  at  peace  with  itself,  with  the  world, 
and  with  God. 


HAPPINESS. 

Happiness  is  of  the  heart,  and  it  is  the  mind  that  gives  its  tone  and 
colouring  to  nature. 

THERE  is  a  spell  in  every  flower  — 

A  sweetness  in  each  spray, 
And  every  simple  bird  has  power 

To  please  me  with  its  lay! 

(350) 


ANNA     PEYRE     DINNIES.  351 

And  there  is  music  on  each  breeze 

That  sports  along-  the  glade ; 
The  crystal  dew-drops  on  the  trees 

Are  gems,  by  Fancy  made. 

There 's  gladness  too  in  every  thing, 

And  beauty  over  all, 
For  everywhere  comes  on,  with  Spring, 

A  charm  which  cannot  pall ! 

And  I!  —  my  heart  is  full  of  joy, 

And  gratitude  is  there, 
That  He,  who  might  my  life  destroy, 

Has  yet  vouchsafed  to  spare. 

The  friends  I  once  condemned,  are  now 

Affectionate  and  true; 
I  wept  a  pledged  one's  broken  vow  — 

But  he  proves  faithful  too. 

And  now  there  is  a  happiness 

In  every  thing  I  see, 
Which  bids  my  soul  rise  up  and  bless 

The  God  who  blesses  me. 


LINES 

ADDRESSED     TO     A     WHITE     CHRYSANTHEMUM,     PRESENTED     TO 
THE     WRITER    IN     DECEMBER. 

FAIR  gift  of  friendship,  and  her  ever  bright 
And  faultless  image !     Welcome  now  thoti  art 

In  thy  pure  loveliness,  thy  robes  of  white 
Speaking  a  moral  to  the  feeling  heart; 

Unscathed  by  heat,  by  wintry  blasts  unmoved, 

Thy  strength  thus  tested,  and  thy  charms  improved. 


352  ANNA     P  E  Y  R  E     D  I  N  N  I  F.  S  . 

Emblem  of  innocence,  which  fearless  braves 
Life's  dreariest  scenes,  its  rudest  storm  derides, 

And  floats  as  calmly  on  o'er  troubled  waves 

As  where  the  peaceful  streamlet  smoothly  glides ; 

Thou'rt  blooming  now  as  beautiful  and  clear 

As  other  blossoms  do,  when  spring  is  here. 

Symbol  of  hope,  still  banishing  the  gloom 

Hung  o'er  the  mind  by  stern  December's  reign ! 

Thou  cheer'st  the  fancy  by  thy  steady  bloom 
With  thoughts  of  summer  and  the  fertile  plain, 

Calling  a  thousand  visions  into  play, 

Of  beauty  redolent  and  bright  as  May. 

Type  of  a  true  and  holy  love ;   the  same 

Through  every  scene  that  crowds  life's  varied  page, 

'Mid  grief,  'mid  gladness,  spell  of  every  dream, 
Tender  in  youth,  and  strong  in  feeble  asre ! 

The  peerless  picture  of  a  modest  wife, 

Thou  bloom'st  the  fairest  'mid  the  frosts  of  life. 


THE      WIFE. 

'•She   flung  her   white  arms  around   him  —  Thou  art  all 
That  this  poor   heart  can  cling  to." 

I  COULD  have  stemm'd  misfortune's  tide, 

And  borne  the  rich  one's  sneer, 
Have  braved  the  haughty  glance  of  pride, 

Nor  shed  a  single  tear. 
I  could  have  smiled  on  every  blow 

From  Life's  full  quiver  thrown, 
While  I  might  gaze  on  thee,  and  know 

I  should  not  be  "  alone." 

I  could  —  I   think  I  could  have  brook'd 
E'en  for  a  time,  that  thou 


ANNA     PEYRK     DINNIES.  353 

Upon  my  fading  face  hadst  look'd 

With  less  of  love  than  now  ; 
For  then  1  should  at  least  have  felt 

The  sweet  hope  still  my  own, 
To  win  thee  back,  and,  whilst  I  dwelt 

On  earth,  not  been  "  alone.17 

But  thus  to  see,  from  day  to  day, 

Thy  brightening  eye  and  cheek, 
And  watch  thy  life-sands  waste  away 

Unnumber'd,  slowly,  meek ; 
To  meet  thy  smiles  of  tenderness, 

And  catch  the  feeble  tone 
Of  kindness,  ever  breathed  to  bless, 

And  feel,  I'll  be  "alone;" 

To  mark  thy  strength  each  hour  decay, 

And  yet  thy  hopes  grow  stronger, 
As,  fill'd  with  heavenward  trust,  they  say, 

"  Earth  may  not  claim  thee  longer ;" 
Nay,  dearest,  'tis  too  much  —  this  heart 

Must  break  when  thou  art  gone  : 
It  must  not  be ;   we  may  not  part ; 

I  could  not  live  "  alone !" 


WEDDED     LOVE. 

COME,  rouse  thee,  dearest !  —  't  is  not  well 

To  let  the  spirit  brood 
Thus  darkly  o'er  the  cares  that  swell 

Life's  current  to  a  flood. 
As  brooks,  and  torrents,  rivers,  all, 
Increase  the  gulf  in  which  they  fall, 
Such  thoughts,  by  gathering  up  the  rills 
Of  lesser  griefs,  spread  real  ills, 
30*  x 


354  ANNA     PEYRE     DINNIES. 

And  with  their  gloomy  shades  conceal 
The  landmarks  Hope  would  else  reveal. 

Come,  rouse  thee,  now  —  I  know  thy  mind, 
And   would  its  strength  awaken ; 

Proud,  gifted,  noble,  ardent,  kind  — 

Strange  thou  shouldst  be  thus  shaken ! 

But  rouse  afresh  each  energy, 

And  be  what  Heaven  intended  thee; 

Throw  from  thy  thoughts  this  wearying  weight, 

And  prove  thy  spirit  firmly  great : 

I  would  not  see  thee  bend  below 

The  angry  storms  of  earthly  woe. 

Full  well  I  know  the  generous  soul 
Which  warms  thee  into  life, 
Each  spring  which  can  its  powers  control, 

Familiar  to  thy  Wife  — 
For  deem'st  thou  she  had  stoop'd  to  bind 
Her  fate  unto  a  common  mind  ? 
The  eagle-like  ambition,  nursed 
From  childhood  in  her  heart,  had  first 
Consumed,  with  its  Promethean  flame, 
The  shrine  —  than  sunk  her  so  to  shame. 

Then  rouse  thee,  dearest,  from  the  dream 

That  fetters  now  thy  powers  : 
Shake  off  this  gloom  —  Hope  sheds  a  beam 

To  gild  each  cloud  which  lowers ; 
And  though  at  present  seems  so  far 
The  wished-for  goal  —  a  guiding  star, 
With  peaceful  ray,  would  light  thee  on, 
Until  its  utmost  bounds  be  won  : 
That  quenchless  ray  thou  'It  ever  prove, 
In  fond,  undying,  Wedded  Love. 


ANNA     PEYRE     DINNIES. 

TO    MY    HUSBAND'S    FIRST    GRAY    HAIR. 

"I  know  thee  not  —  I  loathe  thy  race  ; 
But  in  thy  lineaments  I  trace 
What  time  shall  strengthen — not  efface." 

Giaour. 

THOU  strange,  unbidden  guest!  from  whence 

Thus  early  hast  thou  come? 
And  wherefore  ?     Rude  intruder,  hence  ! 

And  seek  some  fitter  home! 
These  rich  young  locks  are  all  too  dear  — 
Indeed  thou  must  not  linger  here! 

Go!  take  thy  sober  aspect  where 

The  youthful  cheek  is  fading, 
Or  find  some  furrow'd  brow,  which  Care 

And  Passion  have  been  shading; 
And  add  thy  sad  malignant  trace, 
To  mar  the  aged  or  anguish'd  face ! 

Thou  wilt  not  go?     Then  answer  me, 
And  tell  what  brought  thee  here  ? 

Not  one  of  all  thy  tribe  I  see 
Beside  thyself  appear, 

And,  through  these  bright  and  clustering  curls 

Thou  shinest,  a  tiny  thread  of  pearls. 

Thou  art  a  moralist?  ah,  well! 

And  comest  from  Wisdom's  land, 
A  few  sage  axioms  just  to  tell  ? 

Well !  well !  I  understand  — 
Old  Truth  hath  sent  thee  here  to  bear 
The  maxims  which  we  fain  must  hear. 

And  now,  as  I  observe  thee  nearer, 
Thou'rt  pretty  —  very  pretty  —  quite 

As  glossy  and  as  fair — nay  fairer 
Than  these,  but  not  so  bright; 


355 


356  ANNA     PEYRE     DINNIES. 

And  since  thou  came  Truth's  messenger, 
Thou  shall  remain  and  speak  of  her. 

She  says  thou  art  a  herald  sent 

In  kind  and  friendly  warning, 
To  mix  with  locks  by   heauty  blent, 

(The  fair  young  brow  adorning,) 
And  'midst  their  wild  luxuriance  taught 
To  show  thyself,  and  waken  thought. 

That  thought,  which  to  the  dreamer  preaches 

A  lesson  stern  as  true, 
That  all  things  pass  away,  and  teaches 

How  youth  must  vanish  too! 
And  thou  wert  sent  to  rouse  anew 
This  thought,  whene'er  thou  meet'st  the  view. 

And  comes  there  not  a  whispering  sound, 
A  low,  faint,  murmuring  breath, 

Which,  as  thou  movest,  floats  around 
Like    echoes  in  their  deatli  ? 

"Time  onward  sweeps,  youth  flies,  prepare"  — 

Such  is  thine  errand,  First  Gray  Hair. 


HOPE. 

IN  life's  young  morn,  with  buds  and  flowers, 

Hope,  smiling  nymph,  appears, 
And  sings,  to  charm  our  opening  hours, 

A  thousand  siren  airs. 

And  though  her  fairy  buds  decay, 

And  soon  her  flow'rets  fall; 
She  lures  us  on  from  day  to  day, 

With  strains  that  never  pall. 


ANNA     PEYRE     DINNIES.  357 

She  hovers  o'er  the  darkest  cloud 

That  life's  sad  pathway  shades, 
And  e'en  when  tempests  rage  most  loud, 

Her  voice  the  storm  pervades. 

She  lights  our  gloom  —  she  soothes  our  care  — 

She  bids  our  fears  depart, 
Transforms  to  gems  each  grief-fraught  tear, 

And  binds  the  broken  heart. 


She  glances  o'er  us  from  above, 
The  brightest  star  that's  given, 

And  guides  us  still  through  faith  and  love, 
To  endless  peace  in  Heaven! 


LINE  s. 

(WRITTEN  AFTER   SEEING  MACREADY  IN   VIRGINIUS.) 

AND  I  have  seen  thee,  gifted  one !   at  last ! 

Thy  spirit-stirring  accents  —  they  have  come 
Like  some  remember'd  melody,  long  past, 

Calling  up  fancies  of  my  childhood's  home  \ 
And  speaking  to  my  heart  in  tones  that  seem 
The  clear  familiar  whisperings  of  a  dream ! 

For  thou  hast  been  to  me  a  dream !    thy  name 
A  spell  round  which  my  fancy  fondly  clung 

Since  the  first  echo  of  its  deathless  fame, 
Like  far-off  music,  on  my  ear  was  flung  — 

And  I  have  ponder'd  o'er  thy  power,  till  thought 

Grew  faint  with  all  the  wonders  it  hath  wrought. 


358  ELIZABETH     F.     ELLET. 

And  I  have  dream'd  that  it  should  yet  be  mine 
To  sit  entranced  beneath  thy  wizard  skill, 

And  see  thee  wield  that  mystic  gift  divine 
Which  held  each  heart  a  captive  to  thy  will ; 

While  by  its  aid  the  intellectual  realm 

Obey'd  thy  impulse  as  a  ship  its  helm. 

Yes !   thou  hast  been  to  me  a  dream  —  and  lo ! 

Its  bright  fulfilment  in  the  prairied  West! 
For  though  Time's  pinion  may  have  touch'd  thy  brow, 

The  gem  within  defies  his  withering  test ! 
Genius  triumphant!  Glorious  Prince  of  Art! 
Still  is  thine  empire  own'd  in  every  heart! 


ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET. 

THE  father  of  this  distinguished  lady,  Dr.  William  N.  Lnmmis  of 
New  Jersey,  was  a  physician,  a  man  of  talent  and  scholarship,  and  the 
pupil  and  friend  of  that  eminent  physician  and  good  man,  Doctor  Ben 
jamin  Rush.  Her  mother  is  a  niece  of  General  Maxwell,  noted  for 
his  services  in  the  Revolutionary  war.  Dr.  Lurnmis  soon  relinquished 
the  practice  of  medicine,  and  settled  on  his  estate  near  Sodus  Bay  on 
Lake  Ontario,  where  the  subject  of  this  sketch  was  born.  The  beau 
tiful  scenery  —  "the  woodlands  gay,  and  waters  sparkling  clear," — 
of  her  childhood's  home,  she  has  celebrated  in  one  of  her  sweet 
est  strains.  She  was  married  very  young  to  Dr.  Ellet,  and  re 
moved  to  Columbia,  South  Carolina,  where  her  husband  (who  had 
previously  occupied  the  chair  of  Chemistry  in  Columbia  College,  New 
York,)  was  elected  to  the  professorship  of  Chemistry,  Mineralogy,  and 
Geology,  in  the  South  Carolina  College.  Soon  after  her  marriage,  Mrs. 
Ellet  published  a  volume  of  Poems,  Translated  and  Original,  with  a 
tragedy  called  Teresa  Contarini,  which  was  successfully  performed  in 


ELIZABETH     F.     ELLET.  359 

New  York  and  other  cities.  Her  next  work  was  The  Characters  of 
Schiller ,-  which  was  quickly  followed  by  a  volume  of  interesting  his 
torical  sketches,  called  Scenes  in  the  Life  of  Joanna  of  Sicily.  After 
these,  appeared  her  Country  Rambles  ;  in  which  she  has  painted  with 
an  artist's  hand  and  lover's  eye,  some  of  the  most  beautiful  scenes  of  her 
native  land.  She  is  now  preparing  a  work  on  The  Women  of  the  Revo 
lution,  the  materials  for  which  are  chiefly  drawn  from  private  papers 
in  the  possession  of  various  families,  and  from  their  personal  recollec- 
lections.  Mrs.  Ellet  is  a  superior  linguist;  and  (as  her  numerous  and 
excellent  translations  testify,)  has  an  extensive  acquaintance  with  the 
literature  of  Italy,  France,  Germany,  and  some  of  the  more  northerly 
nations  of  Europe.  She  is  a  writer  of  great  research,  of  equal  skill 
and  industry ;  and  her  prose  articles  in  the  American  Quarterly,  and 
New  York  Review,  are  characterized  by  their  learning  and  good  taste. 
As  a  poet  Mrs.  Ellet  is  elevated,  tranquil,  and  reflective.  Her  versi 
fication  is  smooth,  and  her  epithets  well-chosen  and  expressive.  That 
faculty  of  accurate  observation,  which  is  one  of  the  first  requisites  for 
the  production  of  poetry,  whether  it  acts  upon  outward  objects  or  upon 
images  present  only  to  the  mind,  she  has  in  a  great  degree.  Her  de 
scriptive  poems  are  natural  and  pleasing;  while  her  moral  poems  are 
always  imbued  with  that  tenderly  sad  wisdom,  taught  by  the  grave 
philosopher — Experience. 

SUSQUEHANNA. 

SOFTLY  the  blended  light  of  evening  rests 
Upon  thee,  lovely  stream!     Thy  gentle  tide, 
Picturing  the  gorgeous  beauty  of  the  sky, 
Onward,  unbroken  by  the  milling  wind, 
Majestically  flows.     Oh!  by  thy  side, 
Far  from  the  tumults  and  the  throng  of  men, 
And  the  vain  cares  that  vex  poor  human  life, 
'T  were  happiness  to  dwell,  alone  with  thee, 
And  the  wide  solemn  grandeur  of  the  scene. 
From  thy  green  shores,  the  mountains  that  enclose 
In  their  vast  sweep  the  beauties  of  the  plain, 
Slowly  receding,  toward  the  skies  ascend, 
Enrobed  with  clustering  woods  o'er  which  the  smile 


360  ELIZABETH     F.     ELLET. 

Of  Autumn  in  his  loveliness  hath  pass'd, 
Touching  their  foliage  with  his  brilliant  hues, 
And  flinging  o'er  the  lowliest  leaf  and  shrub 
His  golden  livery.     On  the  distant  heights 
Soft  clouds,  earth-based,  repose,  and  stretch  afar 
Their  burnish'd  summits  in  the  clear  blue  heaven, 
Flooded  with  splendour,  that  the  dazzled  eye 
Turns  drooping  from  the  sight.  —  Nature  is  here 
Like  a  throned  sovereign,  and  thy  voice  doth  tell 
In  music  never  silent,  of  her  power. 
Nor  are  thy  tones  unanswer'd,  where  she  builds 
Such  monuments  of  regal  sway.     These  wide 
Untrodden  forests  eloquently  speak, 
Whether  the  breath  of  summer  stir  their  depths, 
Or  the  hoarse  moaning  of  November's  blast 
Strip  from  the  boughs  their  covering. 

All  the  air 

Is  now  instinct  with  life.     The  merry  hum 
Of  the  returning  bee,  and  the  blithe  song 
Of  fluttering  bird,  mocking  the  solitude, 
Swell  upward  —  and   the  play  of  dashing  streams 
From  the  green  mountain  side  is  faintly  heard. 
The  wild  swan  swims  the  waters'  azure  breast 
With  graceful  sweep,  or  startled,  soars  away, 
Cleaving  with  mounting  wing  the  clear  bright  air. 

Oh  !  in  the  boasted  lands  beyond  the  deep, 

Where  Beauty   hath  a  birth-right  —  where  each  mound 

And  mouldering  ruin   tells  of  ages  past  — 

And  every  breeze,  as  with  a  spirit's  tone, 

Doth  waft  the  voices  of  Oblivion  back, 

Waking  the  soul  to  lofty  memories, 

Is  there  a  scene   whose  loveliness  could  fill 

The  heart  with  peace  more  pure?  —  Nor  yet  art  thou, 

Proud  stream!  without  thy  records  —  graven  deep 


ELIZABETH     F.     ELL  ET.  36 1 

On  yon  eternal  hills,  which  shall  endure 

Long  as  their  summits  breast  the  wint'ry  storm 

Or  smile  in  the  warm  sunshine.     They  have  heen 

The  chroniclers  of  centuries  gone  by  : 

Of  a  strange  race,  who  trod  perchance  their  sides, 

Ere  these  gray  woods  had  sprouted  from  the  earth 

Which  now  they  shade.     Here  onward  swept  thy  waves, 

When  tones  now  silent  mingled  with  their  sound, 

And  the  wide  shore  was  vocal  with  the  song 

Of  hunter  chief,  or  lover's  gentle  strain. 

Those  pass'd  away  —  forgotten  as  they  pass'd; 

But  holier  recollections  dwell  with  thee  : 

Here  hath  immortal  Freedom  built  her  proud 

And  solemn  monuments.     The  mighty  dust 

Of  heroes  in  her  cause  of  glory  fallen, 

Hath  mingled  with  the  soil,  and  hallow'd  it. 

Thy   waters  in  their  brilliant  path  have  seen 

The  desperate  strife  that  won  a  rescued  world  — 

The  deeds  of  men  who  live  in  grateful  hearts. 

And  hymn'd  their  requiem. 

Far  beyond  this  vale 

That  sends  to  heaven  its  incense  of  lone  flowers, 
Gay  village  spires  ascend — and  the  glad  voice 
Of  industry  is  heard.  —  So  in  the  lapse 
Of  future  years  those  ancient  woods  shall  bow 
Beneath  the  levelling  axe  —  and  Man's  abodes 
Display  their  sylvan  honours.     They  will  pass 
In  turn  away; — yet  heedless  of  all  change, 
Surviving  all,  thou  still  wilt  murmur  on, 
Lessoning  the  fleeting  race  that  look  on  thee 
To  mark  the  wrecks  of  time,  and  read  their  doom. 
31 


362  E^L  IZABETH     F.     ELLET. 


"  A  B  I  D  E     WITH     US." 

Luke,  xxiv.  29. 

"ABIDE  with  us;    the  evening  hour  draws  on; 
And  pleasant  at  the  daylight's  fading  close 

The  traveller's  repose ! 

And  as  at  morn's  approach  the  shades  are  gone, 
Thy  words,  oh !  blessed  stranger,  have  dispell'd 
The  midnight  gloom  in  which  our  souls  were  held. 

Sad  were  our  souls,  and  quench'd  hope's  latest  ray, 
But  thou  to  us  hast  words  of  comfort  given 

Of  Him  who  came  from  heaven ! 
How  burn'd  our  hearts  within  us  on  the  way. 
While  thou  the  sacred  scripture  didst  unfold, 
And  had'st  us  trust  the  promise  given  of  old  ! 

Abide  with  us ;    let  us  not  lose  thee  yet ! 
Lest  unto  us  the  cloud  of  fear  return, 
When  we  are  left  to  mourn 
That  Israel's  Hope — his  better  Sun  —  is   set! 
Oh,  teach  us  more  of  what  we  long  to  know, 
That  new-born  joy  may  chide  our  faithless  woe." 

Thus  in  their  sorrow  the  disciples  pray'd, 
And  knew  not  He  was  walking  by  their  side 

Who  on  the  cross  had  died ! 
But  when  he  broke  the  consecrated  broad, 
Then  saw  they  who  had  deign'd  to  bless  their  board, 
And  in  the  stranger  hail'd   their  risen  Lord. 

u  Abide  with  us !"     Thus  the  believer  pravs, 
Compass'd   with  doubt  and  bitterness  and  dread  — 

When,  as  life  from  the  dead, 
The  bow  of  mercy  breaks  upon  his  gaze : 
He  trusts  the  word,  yet  fears  lest  from  his  heart 
He  whose  discourse  is  peace  too  soon  depart. 


ELIZABETH     F.     ELLET.  363 

Open,  them  trembling  one  —  the  portal  wide, 
Arid  to  the  inmost  chamber  of  thy  breast 
Take  home  the  heavenly  guest! 
He  for  the  famish'd  shall  a  feast  provide  — 
And  thou  shalt  taste  the  bread  of  life,  and  see 
The  Lord  of  angels  come  to  sup  with  thee. 

Beloved!    who  for  us  with  care  hast  sought! 

Say  —  shall  we  hear  thy  voice,  and  let  Thee  wait 

All  night  before  the  gate  — 

Wet  with  the  dews  —  nor  greet  Thee  as  we  ought? 
Oh !    strike  the  fetters  from  the  hand  of  pride, 
And,  that  we  perish  not,  with  us,  O  Lord,  abide ! 

THE     DYING     GIRL'S     MESSAGE. 

"Know  you  what  it  is  when  anguish,  with  apocalyptic  NEVER, 
To  a  Pythian  height  dilates  you,  and  despair  sublimes  to  power?" 

Miss  Barrett. 

THE  struggle's  o'er;  the  coward  fear  is  past; 

Even  wrong  and  pain  must  now  their  prey  forego ; 
And  the  worn  heart  may  lift  its  voice  at  last, 

Strong  in  the  majesty  of  cureless  woe ! 

The  iron  chain,  so  long  in  silence  borne, 
Falls  riven  from  the  bosom  of  the  slave ; 

And  I,  to  thee  —  who  gav'st  the  meed  of  scorn  — 
Must  speak  once  more,  ere  silent  in  the  grave. 

Yet  what  reck'st  thou  —  that  words  all  idly  spoken 
Have  made  a  life-long  grief  another's  part  ? 

While  thou,  to  point  a  jest,  hast  wounded,  broken, 
That  wrong'd  and  fearful  thing  —  a  human  heart! 

Could  the  cold  sneer,  the  laugh  of  careless  glee 

Which  others — thee  how  far  beneath  ! — might  share, 

Reward  thee,  then,  for  all  it  heap'd  on  me  — 
The  worldless  agony,  —  the  long  despair? 


3(>  4  ELIZABETIIF.     ELLET. 

How  had  I  sinn'd  ?     Was  it  not  pure  from  stain, 
That  guileless  offering  at  a  noble  shrine? 

Did  e'er  a  thought  of  ill  the  soul  profane 
That  in  its  childlike  worship  knelt  to  thine  ? 

Or  if  I  err'd,  perchance  —  oh!  human  brother! 

Deserved  my  fault  the  cruel  penance  given  ? 
Or  say  if  thou  hast  meted  to  another 

The  gentle  mercy  all  must  ask  of  Heaven ! 

Hear  now  the  message  I,  so  proud  in  sorrow, 
Speed  to  thy  presence  with  my  latest  sigh ; 

I  —  for  whose  sight  shall  dawn  no  coming  morrow  — 
Know  but  one  wish  to  bless  thee  ere  I  die ! 

May  all  Heaven's  richest  gifts  be  shower'd  upon  thee, 
May  grief  ne'er  harbour  in  that  manly  breast; 

May  joy  and  peace,  white-wing'd,  with  rapture,  crown  thee, 
And  keep  thee  ever  in  their  golden  rest ! 

Yet  oli !  by  all  the  tears  mine  eyes  have  shed, 
I  pray  thee,  shield  me  from  unworthy  blame! 

Embalm   my  memory  with  the  sacred  dead; 
I  nto  the  cold  and  stern  breathe  not  my  name. 

Like  some  faint,  fading  vision  of  the  past, 
Let  my  veiPd  image  in  remembrance  dwell ; 

In  mercy,  be  no  added  shadow  cast 

On  this  my  long,  and  sad,  and  last  farewell  ! 

SOD  us    BAY. 

I  BLESS  thee  —  native  shore! 
Thy  woodlands  gay,  and  waters  sparkling  clear! 

'T  is  like  a  dream  once  more 
The  music  of  thy  thousand   waves  to  hear ! 

As  murmuring  up  the  sand, 
With  kisses  bright  they  lave  the  sloping  land. 


ELIZABETH     F.     ELLET.  365 

The  gorgeous  sun  looks  down, 
Bathing  thee  gladly  in  his  noontide  ray; 

And  o'er  thy  headlands  brown 
With  loving  light  the  tints  of  evening  plav. 

Thy  whispering  breezes  fear 
To  break  the  calm  so  softly  hallow'd  here. 

Here,  in  her  green  domain, 
The  stamp  of  Nature's  sovereignty  is  found;. 

With  scarce  disputed  reign 
She  dwells  in  all  the  solitude  around. 

And  here  she  loves  to  wear 
The  regal  garb  that  suits  a  queen  so  fair. 

Full  oft  my  heart  hath  yearn'd 
For  thy  sweet  shades  and  vales  of  sunny  rest! 

Even  as  the  swan  return'd, 
Stoops  to  repose  upon  thy  azure  breast, 

I  greet  each  welcome  spot 
Forsaken  long  —  but  ne'er,  ah,  ne'er  forgot. 

'T  was  here  that  memory  grew  — 
'T  was  here  that  childhood's  hopes  and  cares  were  left ; 

Its  early  freshness  too  — 
Ere  droops  the  soul,  of  her  best  joys  bereft. 

Where  are  they? — -o'er  the  track 
Of  cold  years,  1  would  call  the  wanderers  back! 

They  must  be  with  thee  still ! 
Thou  art  unchanged  —  as  bright  the  sunbeams  play  — 

From  not  a  tree  or  hill 
Hath  time  one  hue  of  beauty  snatch'd  away. 

Unchanged  alike  should  be 
The  blessed  things  so  late  resign'd  to  thee ! 
31* 


366  ELIZABETH     F.     ELLET. 

Give  back,  oh,  smiling  deep! 
The  heart's  fair  sunshine,  and  the  dreams  of  youth 

That  in  thy  bosom  sleep  — 
Life's  April  innocence,  and  trustful  truth! 

The  tones  that  breathed  of  yore 
In  thy  lone  murmurs,  once  again  restore! 

Where  have  they  vanish'd  all?  — 
Only  the  heedless  winds  in  answer  sigh  — 

Still  rushing  at  thy  call, 
With  reckless  sweep  the  streamlet  flashes  by! 

And  idle  as  the  air, 
Or  fleeting  stream,  my  soul's  insatiate  prayer! 

Home  of  sweet  thoughts  —  farewell! 
Where'er  through  changeful  life  my  lot  may  be, 

A  deep  and  hallow'd  spell 
Is  on  thy  waters  and  thy  woods  for  me  ! 

Though  vainly  fancy  craves 
Its  childhood  with  the  music  of  thy  waves . 


LINES. 

"Forgetting  those  things  which  are  behind."  —  Phil.  Hi.   13. 

LOOK  not  upon  the  past  — the  mournful  past. 

In  its  stern  grasp  the  joys  and   hopes  of  youth 

The  forms  that  smiled  upon  us,  wreath'd  with  light 
Then  beaming  from  the  morning  sky  of  life  — 
Are  held:  — the  forms  to  which  affection  clung; 
Towards  which  the  lone  and  stricken  spirit,  yearns ; 
And  the  grim  gaoler  will  not  let  them  go! 
Far  off  and  dimly  seen,  like  buried  wealth 
In  cold  dark  ocean  caves — the  treasures  lie, 
While  o'er  them  rolls  th'  impenetrable  deep, 
And  its  hoarse  murmur  wails  the  ever  lost. 


ELIZABETH     F.     ELLET. 

Look  not  upon  the  past  —  the  bitter  past. 

Its  spectral  pageants  haunt  thee !  —  Darkly  there 

Gathers  a  throng,  from  whose  pursuing  gaze 

Thou  fain  would'st  turn  away.     The  hours  misspent  — 

The  wasted  energies  —  the  gifts  abused  — 

The  feelings  wrong'd  —  the  blighted  hopes  —  stand  there. 

The  sins  thou  deernedst  trivial,  and  the  world 

Deem'd  virtues  haply,  tower  to  giant  height, 

And  flout  thee  with  their  scorn.     The  hidden  crimes 

Cast  o£f  their  mask,  and  fill  thee  with  affright. 

Time,    that     relentless  creditor,  there  stands, 

Presenting  his  account,  and  bidding  thee 

Tremble  at  his  dread  records,  and  prepare 

The  reckoning  to  abide. 

Look  not  upon 

The  past  —  the  gloomy  past.     'Tis  stoled  in  grief. 
'Tis  the  domain  of  evil  —  dark  and  sad 
To  human    eyes,  —  the  mournful  prison-house 
Of  human   woes  and  errors.     There,  too,  broods 
The  cloud  of  wrath  divine. 

Thou  mcnfst  forget  — 

Is  the  kind  sentence  Heaven  writes  out  for  man. 
Forget  thy  years  of  folly  —  years  of  crime. 
Lo,  the  unstain'd  future!  'tis  thine  own, 
With  all  its  glorious  aims,  its  boundless  hopes ; 
And  thou  may'st  claim  this  bright  inheritance 
Free  from  all  hindrance  —  so  the  eye  of  faith 
Be  fix^d  on  Him  who  was  content  to  bear 
For  thee  the  shame  and  sorrow  of  the  past. 

THE     WAVES     THAT     ON     THE      SPARKLING     SAND. 

THE  waves  that  on  the  sparkling  sand 

Their  foaming  crests  upheave, 
Lightly  receding  from  the  land, 

Seem  not  a  trace  to  leave. 


ELIZABETH     F.      ELLET. 

Those  billows  in  their  ceaseless  play 
Have  worn  the  solid  rocks  away. 

The  summer  winds,  which  wandering  sigh 

Amid   the  forest  bower, 
So  gently  as  they  murmur  by, 

Scarce  lift  the  drooping  flower. 
Yet  bear  they,  in  autumnal  gloom, 
Spring's  wither'd  beauties  to  the  tomb. 

Thus  worldly  cares,  though  lightly  borne, 

Their  impress  leave  behind ; 
And  spirits,  which  their  bonds  would  spurn, 

The  blighting  traces  find. 
'Till  alter'd  thoughts  and  hearts  grown  cold, 
The  change  of  passing  years  unfold. 


THE     CLOUD     WHERE     SUNBEAMS     SOFT     REPOSE 

THE  cloud  where  sunbeams  soft  repose, 

Gilt  by  the  changeful  ray, 
With  tints  still  warm  and  golden,  glows, 

When  they  have  pass'd  away. 

The  stream  that  in  its  billowy  sweep 
Bursts  from  the  mountain  side, 

Bears  far  into  the  calm  blue  deep 
Its  swift  and  freshening  tide. 

Thus  youthful  joys  our  hearts  can  thrill, 
Though  life  has  lost  its  bloom  ; 

And  sorrow's  hours  of  darkness  still 
With  lingering  charms  illume. 


ELIZABETH     F,     ELLET.  369 


LIKE     SOUTHERN     BIRDS. 

LIKE  southern  birds,  whose  wings  of  light 
Are  cold  and  hueless  while  at  rest  — 

But  spread  to  soar  in  upward  flight, 
Appear  in  glorious  plumage  drest ; 

The  poet's  soul  —  while  darkly  close 
Its  pinions,  bids  no  passion  glow  ; 

But  roused  at  length  from  dull  repose, 
Lights,  while  it  spurns,  the  world  below. 


O'ER     THE     FAR     MOUNTAIN     PEAK     ON     HIGH 

O'ER  the  far  mountain  peak  on  high 

First  shines  the  morning's  ray  ; 
And  latest  from  the  crimson'cl  sky 

The  beam  of  parting  day. 

Yet  there,  to  greet  the  partial  light, 
Nor  flowers  nor  verdure  bloom  ; 

But  barren  all  —  though  coldly  bright  — 
And  cheerless  as  the  tomb. 

While,  in  the  modest  vale's  recess, 

Where  sunlight  scarce  descends, 
Fresh  flowerets  spring  the  beam  to  bless, 

And  grateful  foliage  bends. 

Thus  hearts  that  bask  in  fortune's  smile, 

Undimm'd  by  clouds  of  care, 
Feel  not  the  joys  their  hours  beguile 

Which  humbler  bosoms  share. 


370  ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET. 


S  ONNE  T. 


SHEPHERD,  with  meek  brow  wreathed  with  blossoms  sweet, 

Who  guard'st  thy  timid  flock  with  tenderest  care  — 
Who  guid'st  in  sunny  paths  their  wandering  feet, — 

And  the  young  lambs  dost  in  thy  bosom  bear;  — 
Who  lead'st  thy  happy  flock  to  pastures  fair, 

And  by  still  waters  at  the  noon  of  day  — 
Charming  with  lute  divine  the  silent  air, 

What  time  they  linger  on  the  verdant  way;  — 
Good  Shepherd !    might  one  gentle  distant  strain 

Of  that  immortal  melody  sink  deep 
Into  my  heart,  and  pierce  its  careless  sleep, 

And  melt  by  powerful  love  its  sevenfold  chain  — 
Oh  !  then  my  soul  thy  voice  should  know,  and  flee 
To  mingle  with  thy  flock,  and  ever  follow  Thee! 


SONNET. 

O  WEARY  heart,  there  is  a  rest  for  thee ! 

O  truant  heart  —  there  is  a  blessed  home, 
An  isle  of  gladness  on  life's  wayward  sea, 

Where  storms,  that  vex  the  waters,  never  come. 
There  trees  perennial  yield  their  balmy  shade, 

Their  flower-wreathM  hills  in  sunlit  beauty  sleep; 
There  meek  streams  murmur  through  the  verdant  glade 

There  heaven  bends  smiling  o'er  the  placid  deep. 
Winnow'd  by  wings  immortal  that  fair  isle ; 

Vocal  its  air  with  music  from  above ; 
There  meets  the  exile  eye  a  welcoming  smile ; 

There  ever  speaks  a  summoning  voice  of  love 
Unto  the  heavy-laden  and  distress'd, — 

"  Come  unto  me,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 


J 


MARY  N.  M'DONALD. 

MRS.  M'DONALD  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  Leonard  A.  Bleecker,  Esq., 
of  New  York,  where  she  was  born,  and  a  grandaughter  of  the  late  Ma 
jor  William  Popham,  a  well-known  revolutionary  officer.  Her  father 
left  the  city  when  she  was  very  young-,  and  many  of  her  earlier  years 
were  spent  in  West  Chester  County  ;  where,  amidst  its  quiet  woodland 
scenery,  her  poetical  tastes  first  developed  themselves.  When  quite  a 
little  child,  she  was  possessed  with  a  desire  for  literary  distinction  ;  and 
the  most  earnest  wish  of  her  heart  was  for  "a  whole  quire  of  white  pa 
per."  The  artless  ambition,  however,  that  charmed  her  childhood, 
vanished  as  she  grew  up,  frightened,  no  doubt,  at  a  glimpse  of  that  fame 
in  the  distance  it  had  so  innocently  wished  to  attract. 

On  Miss  Bleecker's  return  to  the  city,  some  of  her  poetical  effusions 
were  published  by  a  friend,  in  the  New  York  Mirror ;  and  gained  so 
much  approbation,  that  she  continued  to  write  for  that  and  other  period 
icals  several  years,  under  the  signature  of  M.  N.  M.  She  was  married 
in  1834  to  Pierre  E.  F.  M'Donald,  Esq. ;  and  her  married  life,  which 
was  singularly  unclouded  and  happy,  (a  sure  sign  that  ambition  had  left 
her ;  because,  if  a  thirst  for  fame  and  a  yearning  for  love  live  together  in  a 
woman's  heart,  they  will  kindle  strife,)  continued  till  April,  1844.  After 
her  husband's  death,  she  became  by  necessity,  not  choice,  an  authoress, 
arid  published  a  volume  entitled  Poems  by  M.  N.  M.,  in  1845.  Two 
small  volumes  of  interesting  juvenile  stories,  called  Cousin  Bertha's 
Tales  for  Children,  subsequently  appeared.  She  contributes  constantly 
to  The  Columbian,  The  Ladies'  Wreath,  and  other  magazines.  Her 
prose  writings  are  remarkable  for  their  ease,  refinement,  and  playful 
simplicity;  while  her  poems,  of  which  the  following  are  a  fair  speci 
men,  are  musical,  graceful,  and  sweet. 


JUNE. 

LAUGHINGLY  thou  comest 

Rosy  June, 

With  thy  light  and  tripping  feet, 
And  thy  garlands  fresh  and  sweet, 

(371) 


372  MARY     N . 

And  thy  waters  all  in  tune; 
With  thy  gift  of  buds  and  bells, 
For  the  uplands  and  the  dells, 
With  the  wild-bird  and  the  bee, 
On  the  blossom  or  the  tree, 
And  my  heart  leaps  forth  to  meet  thee, 
With  a  joyous  thrill  to  greet  thee 

Rosy  June, 

And  I  love  the  flashing  ray 
Of  the  rivulets  at  play, 
As  they  sparkle  into  day, 

Rosy  June! 

Most  lovely  do  I  call  thee, 

Laughing  June ! 

For  thy  skies  are  bright  and  blue, 
As  a  sapphire's  brilliant  hue, 

And  the  heats  of  Summer  noon, 
Made  cooler  by  thy  breath  — 
O'er  the  clover-scented  heath, 

Which  the  scythe  must  sweep  so  soon: 
And  thou  fan'st  the  fever'd  cheek 
With  thy  softest  gales  of  balm, 
Till  the  pulse  so  low  and  weak, 

Beateth  stronger  and  more  calm. 
Kind  physician,  thou  dost  lend 
Like  a  tried  and  faithful  friend, 

To  the  suffering  and  the  weary,  every  blessing  thou  canst  bring 
By  the  sick  man's  couch  of  pain, 
Like  an  angel,  once  again 

Thou  hast  shed  a  gift  of  healing,  from  the  perfume-laden  wing. 
And  the  student's  listless  ear, 
As  a  dreamy  sound  and  dear, 

Hath  caught  a  pleasant  murmur  of  the  insect's  busy  hum, 
Where  arching  branches  meet 
O'er  the  turf  beneath  his  feet, 


373 


And  a  thousand  Summer  fancies,  with  the  melody  have  come ; 

And  he  turneth  from  the  page 

Of  the  prophet  or  the  sage, 
And  forgetteth  all  the  wisdom  of  his  books; 

For  his  heart  is  roving  free 

With  the  butterfly  and  bee, 
And  chimeth  with  the  music  of  the  brooks, 

Singing  still  their  merry  tune, 

In  the  flashing  light  of  noon, 
One  chord  of  thy  sweet  lyre,  laughing  June ! 

I  have  heart-aches  many  a  one, 

Rosy  June! 
And   I  sometimes  long  to  fly 

To  a  world  of  love  and  light, 
Where  the  flowerets  never  die, 

Nor  the  day  gives  place  to  night ; 
Where  the  weariness  and  pain 

Of  this  mortal  life  are  o'er, 
And  we  fondly  clasp  again 

All  the  loved  ones  gone  before. 
And  I  think,  to  lay  my  head 
On  some  green  and  shelter'd  bed, 

Where,  at  dawning  or  at  noon, 
Come  the  birds  with  liquid  note 
In  each  tender  warbling  throat, 

Or  the  breeze,  with  mournful  tune, 
To  sigh  above  my  grave  — 
Would  be  all  that   1  should  crave 
Rosy  June ! 

But  when  thou  art  o'er  the  earth, 
With  thy  blue  and  tranquil  skies, 
And  thy  gushing  melodies, 
And  thy  many  tones  of  mirth  — 
32 


374  MARY     N  .     M 

When  thy  flowers  perfume  the  air, 
And  thy  garlands  wreath  the  bough, 
And  my  birth-place,  even  now 

Seems  an  Eden  bright  and  fair  — 

How  my  spirit  shrinks  away 
From  the  darkness  of  the  tomb, 
And  I  shudder  at  its  gloom 

While  so  beautiful  the  day. 

Yet  I  know  the  skies  are  bright, 

In  that  land  of  love  and  light, 
Brighter,  fairer  than  thine  own,  lovely  June, 

N"o  shadow  dims  the  ray, 

No  night  obscures  the  day, 
But  ever,  ever  reigneth,  high  eternal  noon. 

A  glimpse  thou  art  of  heaven 

Lovely  June! 
Type  of  a  purer  clime 
Beyond  the  flight  of  time, 
Where  the  amaranth  flowers  are  rife 
By  the  placid  stream  of  life, 

For  ever  gently  flowing, 
Where  the  beauty  of  the  rose 
In  that  land  of  soft  repose, 
Nor  blight,  nor  fading  knows, 

In  immortal  fragrance  blowing. 
And  my  prayer  is  still  to  see, 
In  thy  blessed  ministry, 

A  transient  gleam  of  regions  that  are  all  divinely  fair; 
A  foretaste  of  the  bliss 
In  a  holier  world  than  this, 
And  a  place  beside  the  loved  ones,  who  are  safely  gather'd  there. 


MARY     N. 


DONALD.  375 


TO     LIZZIE. 

And  all  hearts  do  pray,  "God  love  her!" 
Ay,  in  certes,  in  yood   sooth, 
We  may  be  all  sure  He  doth. 

Miss  Barrett. 

THERE  's  a  charm  about  thee,  Lizzie, 

That  I  cannot  well  define, 
And  I  sometimes  think  it  lieth 

In  that  soft  blue  eye  of  thine ; 
And  yet,  though  pleasant  is  thine  eye, 

And  beautiful  thy  lip  — 
As  a  rose-leaf  bathed  in  honey  dews, 

A  bee  might  love  to  sip, — 
Yet  I  think  it  is  nor  lip,  nor  eye, 

Which  binds  me  with  its  spell; 
But  a  something  dearer  far  than  these, 

Though  undefinable. 

When  I  meet  thee,  dearest  Lizzie, 

When  I  hear  thy  gentle  tone, 
When  my  hand  is  press'd  so  tenderly, 

So  warmly  in  thine  own; 
Why  then  I  think  it  is  thy  voice, 

Whose  music  like  a  bird's, 
Can  soothe  me  with  the  melody 

Of  sweetly-spoken  words : 
Perchance  the  pressure  of  thy  hand 

This  hidden  charm  may  be  — 
Or  the  magic,  Lizzie,  of  a  sigh 

That  lures  my  heart  to  thee. 

Perchance  it  is  thy  gentleness, 
Perchance  thy  winning  smile, 

Which  lurketh  in  such  dimples, 
As  might  easily  beguile ; 


376  MARY   N.    M 'DONALD. 

Or  perchance  the  music  of  thy  laugh 

Hath  a  bewildering  flow  — 
Yet  I  cannot  tell,  my  Lizzie, 

If  it  be  thy  laugh  or  no; 
For  mirth  as  musical  as  thine 

Hath  met  my  ear  before, 
But  its  memory  faded  from  my  heart 

When  once  the  strain  was  o'er. 


Oh !  for  the  wand  of  fairy 

To  dissolve  the  withering  spell, 
And  teach  me,  dearest  Lizzie, 

What  it  is  1  love  so  well. 
Thy  simple  truth  and  earnestness, 

Perchance  it  may  be  this, 
Or  the  gentle  kindness  breathing 

In  thy  morn  or  evening  kiss  — 
Thy  care  for  others'  weal  or  wo, 

Thy  quickly  springing  tears  — 
Or,  at  times,  a  quiet  thoughtfulness, 

Unmeet  for  thy  brief  years. 

Well,  be  it  either  look  or  tone, 

Or  smile,  or  soft  caress, 
I  know  not,  Lizzie,  yet  I  feel 

I  could  not  love  thee  less. 
And  something  happy  there  may  be, 

"Like  light  within  a  vase," 
Which,  from  the  soul-depths  gleaming  forth, 

Flings  o'er  thee  such  a  grace. 
Perchance,  the  hidden  charm  I  seek, 

That  words  may  not  impart, 
Is  but  the  warm  affections 

Of  a  kind  and  loving  heart. 


MARY   N.    M'DONALD.  377 


THE     SPELLS     OF     MEMORY. 

IT  was  but  the  note  of  a  summer  bird, 

But  a  dream  of  the  past  in  my  heart  it  stirr'd, 

And  wafted  me  far  to  a  breezy  spot, 

Where  blossom'd  the  blue  forget-me-not. 

And  the  broad  green  boughs  gave  a  checkered  gleam 

To  the  (lancing  waves  of  a  mountain  stream, 

And  there,  in  the  heat  of  a  summer  day, 

Again  on  the  velvet  turf  I  lay, 

And  saw  bright  shapes  in  the  floating  clouds, 

And  rear'd  fair  domes,  'mid  their  fleecy  shrouds, 

As  I  look'd  aloft  to  the  azure  sky, 

And  long'd  for  a  bird's  soft  plumes  to  fly, 

Till  lost  in  its  depths  of  purity. 

Alas !  I  have  waked  from  that  early  dream, 
Far,  far  away  is  the  mountain  stream. 
And  the  dewy  turf,  where  so  oft  I  lay, 
And  the  woodland  flowers,  they  are  far  away. 
And  the  skies  that  once  were  to  me  so  blue, 
Now  bend  above  with  a  darker  hue, 
And  yet  I  may  wander  in  fancy  back 
At  memory's  call  to  my  childhood's  track  : 
And  the  fount  of  thought  hath  been  deeply  stirr'd 
By  the  passing  note  of  a  summer  bird. 

It  was  but  the  rush  of  the  autumn  wind, 
But  it  left  a  spell  of  the  past  behind,    • 
And  I  was  abroad  with  my  brothers  twain 
In  the  tangled  paths  of  the  wood  again  : 
Where  the  leaves  were  rustling  beneath  our  feet, 
And  the  merry  shout  of  our  gleesome  mood 
Was  echoed  far  in  the  solitude, 
As  we  caught  the  prize  which  a  kindly  breeze 
Sent  down  in  a  shower  from  the  chesnut  trees. 
32* 


378 


M  AR Y     N  .      M 


Oh !  a  weary  time  hath  pass'd  away 
Since  my  brothers  were  out  by  my  side  at  play, 
A  weary  time,  with  its  weight  of  care, 
And  its  toil  in  the  city's  crowded  air  — 
And  its  pining  wish  for  the  hill-tops  high  — 
For  the  laughing  stream  and  the  clear  blue  sky  — 
For  the  shaded  dell,  and  the  leafy  halls 
Of  the  old  green  wood  where  the  sunlight  falls. 

But  I  see  the  haunts  of  my  early  days, 
The  old  green  wood  where  the  sunshine  plays, 
And  the  flashing  stream  in  its  course  of  light,  — 
And  the  hill-tops  high,  and  the  skies  so  bright, — 
And  the  silent  depths  of  the  shaded  dell, 
Where  the  twilight  shadows  at  noonday  fell, — 
And  the  mighty  charm  which  hath  conquered  these 
Is  nought,  save  a  rush  of  the  autumn  breeze. 

It  was  but  a  violet's  faint  perfume, 

But  it  bore  me  back  to  a  quiet  room, 

Where  a  gentle  girl  in  the  spring-time  gay, 

Was  breathing  her  fair  young  life  away, 

Whose  light  through  the  rose-hued  curtains  fell, 

And  tinted  her  cheek  like  the  ocean-shell, 

And  the  southern  breeze  on  its  fragrant  wings 

Stole  in  with  its  tale  of  all  lovely  things. 

Where  love  watch'd  on  through  the  long,  long  hours, 

And  friendship  came  with  its  gift  of  flowers ; 

And  death  drew  near  with  a  stealthy  tread, 

And  lightly  pillow'd  in  dust  her  head, 

And  seaPd  up  gently  the  lids  so  fair, 

And  damp'd  the  brow  with  its  clustering  hair, 

And  left  the  maiden  in  slumber  deep, 

To  waken  no  more  from  that  tranquil  sleep. 

Then  we  laid  the  flower  her  hand  had  prest, 
To  wither  and  die  on  her  gentle  breast; 
And  back  to  the  shade  of  that  quiet  room 
I  go  with  the  violet's  faint  perfume. 


MARY   N.   M'DONALD.  379 


THE     LITTLE     BIRD     THAT     TOLD     THE     SECRET 

So  I've  heard  your  secret,  Mabel, 

I've  heard  it,  my  little  maid, 
And  you're  going  to  do  a  silly  thing 

I  am  very  much  afraid. 

You  're  going  to  marry  the  miller, 

And  live  beside  the  mill ! 
But  the  miller,  they  say,  is  an  idle  man, 

And  often  his  wheel  stands  still. 

And  they  say  he  is  growing  careless, 

And  spends  the  livelong  day 
In  gazing  over  the  shining  stream 

At  a  cottage  across  the  way. 

And  they  say  he  is  wild  and  wilful, — 

So  prithee,  my  Mabel,  dear, 
Don't  give  your  hand  to  the  miller, 

If  all  is  true  that  I  hear. 

Who  says  he  is  idle,  Bessie  ? 

And  wild  and  wilful,  too  ? 
If  ever  it  come  to  the  miller's  ears, 

They  may  find  it  cause  to  rue. 

And  who  told  you  this  mighty  secret? 

You  need  not  think  't  is  so ; 
A  body  may  walk  with  a  quiet  man, 

Yet  never  to  church  may  go. 

I  should  like  to  see  the  lassie 

Who  told  you  the  silly  jest; 
As  if  I  would  part  with  my  secret, 

For  a  ring  and  a  wedding  vest. 


MARY   N.    M'DONALD. 

You  need  not  deny  it,  Mabel, 
'Twas  a  little  bird  who  came 

But  now  with  the  wondrous  story, 
And  told  unto  me  the  same. 

I  mark'd  the  gleam  of  his  crimson  breast, 
As  he  flitted  across  your  cheek ; 

And  the  rapid  flash  of  his  darting  wing 
In  your  eye,  when  you  did  speak. 

You  're  dreaming,  Bessie,  you  're  dreaming, 

No  talking  birds  have  we; 
And  J  would  not  whisper  the  matter, 

I  'm  sure,  to  a  bird  on  the  tree ; 

And  never  a  wing  came  flitting 

Across  my  cheek  or  eye  — 
So,  Bessie,  you  must  be  dreaming, 

With  all  this  mystery. 

Ah  !  Mabel ;  you  may  dissemble 

With  duller  folks,  I  ween, 
But  you  cannot  still  the  music 

Of  the  little  bird  I  mean. 

He  hath  his  nest  in  your  gentle  breast, 

And  a  tell-tale  bird  is  he, 
For  I  mark'd  the  flush  of  his  crimson  coat 

On  your  cheek  too  easily. 

And  when  I  told  you  the  miller 

Was  a  wild  and  wilful  man, 
The  bird  flew  out  at  your  flashing  eye 

As  only  a  fairy  can. 

And  I  knew,  by  your  hasty  speaking 

In  such  an  earnest  way, 
That  you  cared  for  the  honest  miller 

Much  more  than  you  choose  to  say. 


FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD. 

So  what  I  but  guess'd,  my  Mabel, 

The  bird  hath  told  at  will, 
That  you  're  going  to  marry  the  miller, 
And  live  beside  the  mill. 


381 


FRANCES   S.  OSGOOD. 

MRS.  OSGOOD  is  a  native  of  Boston.  Her  father,  a  merchant  of 
the  name  of  Locke,  was  a  man  of  taste,  education,  and  true  poetical 
sensibilities.  She  was  chiefly  instructed  at  home;  her  step-sister, 
the  accomplished  Mrs.  Wells,  (whose  poerns  we  have  noticed  in  a 
former  part  of  this  volume,)  acting  the  part  of  friend,  guide,  and 
governess,  with  equal  kindness  and  ability.  Genius  was  quickly  dis 
covered  in  all  the  little  Fanny  said  or  wrote;  but  it  was  not  until 
strongly  urged  by  her  benevolent  and  gifted  friend,  Mrs.  Lydia  M.  Child, 
that  the  fruits  of  this  genius  were  permitted  to  be  seen  by  the  world. 
She  then  became  a  contributor  to  the  Juvenile  Miscellany,  and  other 
periodicals,  under  the  name  of  Florence.  During  a  visit  to  London, 
just  after  her  marriage  with  the  distinguished  artist  whose  name  she 
bears,  her  first  collection  of  poems  was  published,  entitled  A  Wreath  of 
Wild  Flowers  from  New  England.  This  gained  for  her  the  friendship 
of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton,  and  much  courteous  attention  from  others  of 
noble  birth  and  talent  in  England.  On  her  return,  Mrs.  Osgood  edited 
The  Flowers  of  Poetry,  or  Poetry  of  Flowers,  and,  for  a  short  time,  a 
magazine  called  The  Ladies'  Companion. 

In  1841,  she  published  The  Snowdrop,  a  book  for  children,  and 
several  other  works  of  the  same  kind.  Another  volume  of  her  Poems 
appeared  in  1845;  since  which  she  has  edited  an  annual,  called  The 
Floral  Offering.  For  many  years  past  she  has  been  one  of  the  most 
popular  and  fertile  contributors  to  the  monthly  magazines  of  whom  our 
country  can  boast.  Her  style  in  prose  is  lively  and  natural;  and  her 
ingenious  stories  are  always  freely  sprinkled  over  with  songs,  or  spar 
kling  epigrammatic  little  poems,  which,  like  jewels  on  a  ball-dress,  not 
only  give  brilliancy  for  the  immediate  occasion,  but  will  be  taken  out 
and  preserved,  when  the  story  itself  is  laid  by  and  forgotten. 


382 


FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD. 


As  a  poetess,  Mrs.  Osgood  is  irresistibly  fascinating.  "There  is 
nothing  mechanical  about  her;"  but  (as  the  Rev.  Dr.  Davidson*  very 
truly  observes)  "  all  is  buoyant,  overflowing,  irrepressible  vivacity,  like 
the  bubbling  up  of  a  natural  fountain.  In  her  almost  childish  playful 
ness,  she  reminds  us  of  that  exquisite  creation  of  Fonque,  Undine,  who 
knew  no  law  but  that  of  her  own  waywardness.  The  great  charm  of 
her  poetry  is  its  unaffected  simplicity.  It  is  the  transparent  simplicity 
of  truth,  reflecting  the  feeling  of  the  moment  like  a  mirror."  But  this 
is  not  her  only,  or  her  most  marked  characteristic :  grace,  wit,  fancy, 
feeling,  and  a  delicious  adaptation  of  sound  to  sense,  are  equally  observ 
able.  As  we  read  her  poems,  her  fairy  songs,  so  sprightly,  loving,  and 
musical,  and  her  fervent  strains  of  tender  thought,  it  is  hard  to  say 
which  of  these  predominate.  But  Mrs.  Osgood  possesses,  also,  loftier 
qualities  than  those  which  merely  fascinate.  There  is  a  fine  moral 
awakening  power,  in  her  noble  and  spirited  lines  on  Labour,  which  evi 
dently  proves  that  she  can  be— more  than  fanciful,  witty,  and  tender, — 
an  eloquent  teacher  of  wisdom  and  truth. 


LABOUR. 
La  bo  rare  est  orare.' 


PAUSE  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us, 

Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  cares  that  come  o'er  us  ; 

Hark,  how  Creation's  deep  musical  chorus, 

Un intermitting,  goes  up  unto  Heaven! 
Never  the  ocean-wave  falters  in  flowing, 
Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing; 
More  and   more  richly  the  rose-heart  keeps  glowing, 

Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is  riven. 

Labour  is  worship!    the  robin  is  singing; 
Labour  is  worship !    the  wild  bee  is  ringing : 
Listen,  —  that  eloquent  whisper  upspringing 

Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  nature's  great  heart. 
From  the  dark  cloud  flows  the  life-giving  shower, 
From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft-breathing  flower, 


*Of  New  Brunswick,  New  Jersey. 


FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD.  383 

From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral  bower; 

Only  man  in  the  plan  shrinks  from  his  part. 

Labour  is  life!  —  'T  is  the  still  water  faileth ; 

Idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth ; 

Keep  the  watch  wound,  for  the  dark  rust  assaileth; 

Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness  of  noon. 
Labour  is  glory  !    the  flying  cloud  lightens ; 
Only  the  roving  wind  changes  and  brightens; 
Idle  hearts  only,  the  dark  future  frightens ; 

Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou  keep  them  in  tune. 

Labour  is  rest  —  from  the  sorrows  that  greet  us, 
Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  that  meet  us, 
Rest  from  sin-promptings  that  ever  entreat  us, 

Rest  from  world-syrens  that  lure  us  to  ill. 
Work  —  and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on  thy  pillow; 
Work  —  thou  shalt  ride  over  Care's  coming  billow ; 
Lie  not  down   wearied  'neath  Wo's  weeping  willow ; 

Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute  will ! 

Droop  not,  though  shame,  sin,  and  anguish  are  round  thee ; 
Bravely  fling  off  the  cold  chain  that  hath  bound  thee; 
Look  to  yon  pure  Heaven  smiling  beyond  thee ! 

Rest  not  content  in  thy  darkness  —  a  clod! 
Work  —  for  some  good  —  be  it  ever  so  slowly; 
Cherish  some  flower  —  be  it  ever  so  lowly; 
Labour!     All  labour  is  noble  and  holy:  — 

Let  thy  good  deeds  be  thy  prayer  to  thy  God ! 

SLANDER. 

A  WHISPER  woke  the  air  — 

A  soft  light  tone  and  low, 

Yet  barb'd  with  shame  and  woe; 
Now,  might  it  only  perish  there ! 

Nor  farther  go. 


384  FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD. 

Ah  me!  a  quick  and  eager  ear 

Caught  up  the  little  meaning  sound! 

Another  voice  has  breathed  it  clear, 
And  so  it  wanders  round, 

From  ear  to  lip  —  from  lip  to  ear, 

Until  it  reach'd  a  gentle  heart, 
And  that  —  it  broke. 

It  was  the  only  heart  it  found, 
The  only  heart  'twas  meant  to  find, 

When  first  its  accents  woke;  — 
It  reach'd  that  tender  heart  at  last, 

And  that  —  it  broke. 

Low  as  it  seeniM  to  other  ears, 
It  came  a  thunder  crash  to  hers, 
That  fragile  girl  so  fair  and  gay, — 
That  guileless  girl  so  pure  and  true. 
'Tis  said  a  lovely  humming-bird 
That  in  a  fragrant  lily  lay, 
And  dream'd  the  summer  morn  away, 
Was  kill'd  but  by  the  gun's  report. 
Some  idle  boy  had  fired  in  sport! 
The  very  sound  —  a  death-blow  came! 

And  thus  her  happy  heart,  that  beat 
With  love  and  hope,  so  fast  and  sweet, 
(Shrined  in  its  lily  too  — 
For  who  the  maid  that  knew 
But  own'd  the  delicate  flower-like  grace 
Of  her  young  form  and  face  ?) 
When  first  that  word 
Her  light  heart  heard, 
It  fiutter'd  like  the  frightenM  bird, 
Then  shut  its   wings  and  sigh'd, 
And,  with  a  silent  shudder  —  died! 


FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD.  385 

THE     LIFE-VOYAGE. 

(A      BALLAD.) 

ONCE  in  the  olden  time  there  dwelt 

Beside  the  sounding  sea, 
A  little  maid  —  her  garb  was  coarse, 

Her  spirit  pure  and  free. 

Her  parents  were  an  humble  twain, 

And  poor  as  poor  could  be; 
Yet  gayly  sang  the  guileless  child, 

Beside  the  sounding  sea. 

The  hut  was  bare,  and  scant  the  fare, 

And  hard  her  little  bed ; 
But  she  was  rich !     A  single  gem 

Its  beauty  round  her  shed. 

She  walk'd  in  light!  —  'twas  all  her  wealth  — 

That  pearl,  whose  lustrous  glow 
Made  her  white  forehead  dazzling  fair, 

And  pure  as  sunlit  snow. 

Her  parents  died !     With  tears  she  cried, 

"God  will  my  father  be !" 
Then  launch'd  alone  her  shallop  light, 

And  bravely  put  to  sea. 

The  sail  she  set  was  virgin-white, 

As  inmost  lily  leaf, 
And  angels  whisper'd  her  from  Heaven, 

To  loose  it  or  to  reef. 

And  ever  on  the  dancing  prow 
One  glorious  brilliant  burn'd, 
By  whose  clear  ray  she  read  her  way, 

And  every  danger  learn'd : 
33  z 


380 


FRANCES      S.     OSGOOD. 

For  she  had  hung  her  treasure  there, 

Her  heaven-illumined  pearl! 
And  so  she  steer'd  her  lonely  bark, 

That  fair  and  guileless  girl ! 

The  wind  was  fresh,  the  sails  were  free, 
High  dash'd  the  diamond  spray, 

And  merrily  leaping  o'er  the  sea, 
The  light  skiff  left  the  bay ! 

But  soon  false,  evil  spirits  came, 
And  strove,  with  costly  lure, 

To  bribe  her  maiden  heart  to  shame, 
And  win  her  jewel  pure. 

They  swarm'd  around  the  fragile  boat, 
They  brought  her  diamonds  rare, 

To  glisten  on  her  graceful  throat, 
And  bind  her  flowing  hair ! 

They  brought  her  gold  from  Afric-land, 
And  from  the  sea- king's  throne 

They  pilfer'd  gems,  to  grace  her  hand 
And  clasp  her  virgin  zone. 

But  still  she  shook  the  silken  curl 
Back  from  her  beaming  eyes, 

And  cried  —  "I  bear  my  spotless  pearl 
Home,  home  to  yonder  skies! 

"  Now  shame  ye  not  your  ocean  gems 

And  Eastern  gold  to  show  ? 
Behold  !  how  mine  outburns  them  all ! 

God's  smile  is  in  its  glow !" 

Fair  blows  the  wind,  the  sail  swells  free, 
High  shoots  the  diamond  spray, 

And  merrily  o'er  the  murmuring  sea 
The  light  boat  leaps  away! 


FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD.  387 

They  swarm'd  around  the  fragile  bark, 

They  strove  with  costlier  lure 
To  bribe  her  maiden  heart  to  shame, 

And  win  her  jewel  pure. 

"  We  bring  thee  rank  —  we  bring  thee  power  — 

We  bring  thee  pleasures  free  — 
No  empress,  in  her  silk-hung  bower, 

May  queen  her  realm  like  thee! 

"  Now  yield  us  up  the  one  white  pearl ! 

'Tis  but  a  star,  whose  ray 
Will  fail  thee,  rash,  devoted  girl, 

When  tempests  cloud  thy  way." 

But  still  she  smiled  a  loftier  smile, 

And  raised  her  frank,  bright  eyes, 
And  cried  —  "I  bear  my  vestal  star 

Home,  home  to  yonder  skies !" 

The  wind  is  fresh  —  the  sail  swells  free  — 

High  shoots  the  diamond  spray! 
And  merrily  o'er  the  moaning  sea 

The  light  boat  leaps  away! 

Suddenly,  stillness  broods  around, 

A  stillness  as  of  death, 
Above,  below  —  no  motion,  sound! 

Hardly  a  struggling  breath! 

Then  wild  and  fierce  the  tempest  came, 

The  dark  wind-demons  clash'd 
Their  weapons  swift  — the  air  was  flame! 

The  waves  in  madness  dash'd! 

They  swarm'd  around  the  tossing  boat  — 

"  Wilt  yield  thy  jewel  now  ? 
Look !  look !  already  drench'd  in  spray, 

It  trembles  at  the  prow. 


388  FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD. 

u  Be  ours  the  gem  I  and  safely  launch'd 

Upon  a  summer  sea, 
Where  never  cloud  may  frown  in  heaven, 

Thy  pinnace  light  shall  be!" 

But  still  she  smiled  a  fearless  smile, 
And  raised  her  trusting  eyes, 

And  cried  —  "I  bear  my  talisman 
Home,  home  to  yonder  skies  !" 

And  safe  through  all  that  blinding  storm 

The  true  bark  floated  on, 
And  soft  its  pearl-illumined  prow 

Through  all  the  tumult  shone! 

An  angel,  guided  through  the  clouds 

By  that  most  precious  light, 
Flew  down  the  fairy  helm  to  take, 

And  steer  the  boat  aright. 

Then  died  the  storm  upon  the  sea! 

High  dash'd  the  diamond  spray, 
And  merrily  leaping  light  and  free, 

The  shallop  saiPd  away. 

And  meekly,  when  at  eve  her  bark 

Its  destined  port  had  found, 
She  moor'd  it  by  the  mellow  spark 

Her  jewel  shed  around  ! 

Would'st  know  the  name  the  maiden  wore  ? 

'T  was  Innocence  —  like  thine ! 
Wouldst  know  the  pearl  she  nobly  bore  ? 

'T  was  Truth  —  a  gem  divine  .' 

Thou  hast  the  jewel  —  keep  it  bright, 

Undimm'd  by  mortal  fear, 
And  bathe  each  stain  upon  its  light 

With  Grief's  repentant  tear! 


FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD.  389 

Still  shrink  from  falsehood's  fairest  guise, 

By  flattery  unbeguiled ! 
Still  let  thy  heart  speak  from  thine  eyes, 

My  pure  and  simple  child ! 


A    SONG. 

CALL  me  pet  names,  dearest !     Call  me  a  bird 

That  flies  to  thy  breast  at  one  cherishing  word, 

That  folds  its  wild  wings  there,  ne'er  dreaming  of  flight, 

That  tenderly  sings  there  in  loving  delight ! 

Oh!  my  sad  heart  keeps  pining  for  one  fond  word, — 

Call  me  pet  names,  dearest !    Call  me  thy  bird  ! 

Call  me  sweet  names,  darling!    Call  me  a  flower, 

That  lives  in  the  light  of  thy  smile  each  hour, 

That  droops  when  its  heaven  —  thy  heart  —  grows  cold, 

That  shrinks  from  the  wicked,  the  false  and  bold, 

That  blooms  for  thee  only,  through  sunlight  and  shower; 

Call  me  pet  names,  darling !    Call  me  thy  flower ! 

Call  me  fond  names,  dearest !    Call  rne  a  star, 

Whose  smile's  beaming  welcome  thou  feel'st  from  afar, 

Whose  light  is  the  clearest,  the  truest  to  thee, 

When  the  k4  night-time  of  sorrow"  steals  over  life's  sea : 

Oh !  trust  thy  rich  bark,  where  its  warm  rays  are, 

Call  me  pet  names,  darling !    Call  me  thy  star ! 

Call  me  dear  names,  darling !  Call  me  thine  own ! 
Speak  to  me  always  in  Love's  low  tone ! 
Let  not  thy  look  nor  thy  voice  grow  cold ; 
Let  my  fond  worship  thy  being  enfold  ; 
Love  me  for  ever,  and  love  me  alone ! 
Call  me  pet  names,  darling !    Call  me  thine  own ! 
83* 


390  FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD. 


A     S  ON  G . 

YES!  "lower  to  the  level" 

Of  those  who  laud  thee  now ! 
Go  !  join  the  joyous  revel, 

And  pledge  the  heartless  vow ! 
Go!  dim  the  soul-born  beauty 
That  lights  that  lofty  brow! 
Fill,  fill  the  bowl !  let  burning  wine 
Drown,  in  thy  soul,  Love's  dream  divine ! 

Yet  when  the  laugh  is  lightest, 

When  wildest  goes  the  jest, 
When  gleams  the  goblet  brightest, 
And  proudest  heaves  thy  breast, 
And  thou  art  madly  pledging 

Each  gay  and  jovial  guest, — 
A  ghost  shall  glide  amid  the  flowers  — 
The  shade  of  Love's  departed  hours! 

And  thou  shalt  drink  in  sadness 
From  all  the  splendour  there, 
And  curse  the  revel's  gladness, 
And  hate  the  banquet's  glare, 
And  pine,  'mid   Passion's  madness, 

For  true  Love's  purer  air, 
And  feel  thou'dst  give  their  wildest  glee, 
For  one  unsullied  sigh  from  me! 

Yet  deem  not  this  my  prayer,  love, 

Ah !  no !  if  I  could  keep 
Thy  alter'd  heart  from  care,  love, 

And  charm  its  griefs  to  sleep, 
Mine  only  should  despair,  love, 

I  —  I  alone  would  weep! 
I  —  I  alone  would  mourn  the  flowers 
That  fade  in  Love's  deserted  bowers ! 


FRANCES  S.  OSGOOD.  391 


SILENT  LOVE. 

AH  !  let  our  love  be  still  a  folded  flower, 
A  pure,  moss  rose-bud  blushing  to  be  seen, 

Hoarding  its  balm  and  beauty  for  that  hour 

When  souls  may  meet  without  the  clay  between  ! 

Let  not  a  breath  of  passion  dare  to  blow 

Its  tender,  timid,  clinging  leaves  apart! 
Let  not  the  sunbeam,  with  too  ardent  glow, 

Profane  the  dewy  freshness  at  its  heart! 

Ah !  keep  it  folded  like  a  sacred  thing ! 

With  tears  and  smiles  its  bloom  and  fragrance  nurse ; 
Still  let  the  modest  veil  around  it  cling, 

Nor  with  rude  touch  its  pleading  sweetness  curse. 

Be  thou  content,  as  I,  to  know,  not  see, 

The  glowing  life,  the  treasured  wealth  within  — 

To  feel  our  spirit-flower  still  fresh  and  free, 

And  guard  its  blush,  its  smile,  from  shame  and  sin. 

Ah!  keep  it  holy!  once  the  veil  withdrawn  — 
Once  the  rose  blooms  —  its  balmy  soul  will  fly, 

As  fled  of  old  in  sadness,  yet  in  scorn, 

Th'  awaken'd  god  from  Psyche's  daring  eye! 


"SHE    LOVES    HIM   YET. 

A    SONG. 

SHE  loves  him  yet ! 
I  know  by  the  blush  that  rises 

Beneath  the  curls 
That  shadow  her  soul-lit  cheek; 


392  FRAN  CESS.     OSGOOD. 

She  loves  him  yet! 
Thro'  all  Love's  sweet  disguises 

In  timid  girls, 
A  blush  will  be  sure  to  speak. 

But  deeper  signs 
Than  the  radiant  blush  of  beauty, 

The  maiden  finds, 
Whenever  his  name  is  heard;  — 

Her  young  heart  thrills, 
Forgetting  herself — her  duty  — 

Her  dark  eye  fills, 
And  her  pulse  with  hope  is  stirr'd. 

She  loves  him  yet! 
The  flower  the  false  one  gave  her 

When  last  he  came, 
Is  still  with  her  wild  tears  wet, 

She'll  ne'er  forget, 
Howe'er  his  faith  may  waver, 

Thro'  grief  and  shame, 
Believe  it  —  she  loves  him  yet! 

His  favourite  songs 
She  will  sing  —  she  heeds  —  no  other; 

With  all  her  wrongs 
Her  life  on  his  love  is  set. 

Oh !  doubt  no  more ! 
She  never  can  wed  another : 

Till  life  be  o'er, 
She  loves  —  she  will  love  him  yet! 

STANZAS     FOR     MUSIC. 

BELIEVE  me,  'tis  no  pang  of  jealous  pride 
That  brings  these  tears  I  know  not  how  to  hide; 
I  only  grieve  because  —  because — I  see 
Thou  find'st  not  all  thy  heart  demands  in  me. 


FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD. 

I  only  grieve  that  others,  who  care  less 
For  thy  dear  love,  thy  lightest  wish  may  hless ; 
That  while  to  them  thou'rt  nothing  —  all  to  me, 
They  may  a  moment  minister  to  thee! 

Ah  !    If  a  fairy's  magic  might  were  mine, 

I  'd  joy  to  change  with  each  new  wish  of  thine ; 

Nothing  to  all  the  world  beside  I'd  be, 

And  everything  thou  lov'st,  in  turn  to  thee! 

Pliant  as  clouds,  that  hunt  the  sun-god  still, 
I'd  catch  each  ray  of  thy  prismatic  will; 
I 'd  be  a  flower  —  a  wild,  sweet  flower  I'd  be, 
And  sigh  my  very  life  away  for  thee. 

I'd  be  a  gem  and  drink  light  from  the  sun, 
To  glad  thee  with,  if  gems  thy  fancy  won ; 
Were  birds  thy  joy,  I'd  light  with  docile  glee 
Upon  thy  hand,  and  shut  my  wings  for  thee  ! 

Could  a  wild  wave  thy  glance  of  pleasure  meet, 
I'd  lay  my  crown  of  spray-pearls  at  thy  feet; 
Or  could  a  star  delight  thy  heart,  I'd  be 
The  happiest  star  that  ever  look'd  on  thee! 

If  music  lured  thy  spirit,  I  would  take 
A  tune's  aerial  beauty  for  thy  sake; 
And  float  into  thy  soul,  till  I  could  see 
How  to  become  all   melody  to  thee. 

The  weed,  that  by  the  garden  blossom  grows, 
Would,  if  it  could,  be  glorious  as  the  rose ; 
It  tries  to  bloom  —  its  soul  to  light  aspires; 
The  love  of  beauty  every  fibre  fires. 

And  / — no  luminous  cloud  floats  by  above, 
But  wins  at  once  my  envy  and  my  love, 
So  passionately  wild  this  thirst  in  me, 
To  be  all  beauty  and  all  grace  to  thee! 


393 


•394  FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD. 

Alas!    I  am  but  woman,  fond  and  weak, 
Without  even  power  my  proud,  pure  love  to  speak, 
But  oh !   by  all  I  fail  in,  love  not  me 
For  what  1  am  —  but  what  I  wish  to  be  I 


THE     BOY     PAINTER. 

"  My  mother's  kiss  made  me  a  painter." 

Life  of  Benjamin  West. 

A  LITTLE  heart  where  slept   the  germ,  as   yet   in    night   con 
cealed, 

Of  power  and  glory  since  to  be  (how  radiantly)  reveal'd, 
Alone,  beside  a  cradle  bed,  was  beating  fast  and  warm, 
Where,  beautiful  in  slumber,  lay  a  baby's  dimpled  form. 

The  infant  smiled  in  sleep,  and  lo !  a  little  ardent  hand. 
Ere  fled  the  smile,  had  snatch'd  a  pen  and  paper  from  the  stand, 
And  traced  the  cradle  and  the  babe,  as  if  by  magic  spell ; 
How  soft,  beneath  that  tiny  touch,  the  fairy  features  fell. 

How  fondly  o'er  the  playful  sketch  he  bends — the  enraptured 

boy  — 

Unmindful  of  his  precious  charge,  so  deep  his  dream  of  joy, 
'Tis  broken  by  a  stealing  step — his  mother  caught  the  prize, 
And  kiss'd  away  the  cloud  of  doubt  that  fill'd  his  timid  eyes. 

Oh !  blessed  love  !  how  mighty  thou  to  sway  the  human  heart ! 
A  subtle  yet  a  holy  thing,  and  conqueror  thou  art! 
His  sister's  smile  awoke  the  germ,  his  mother's  kiss  the  flower, 
And  a  world's  tears  the  fruit  embalm  in  many  a  classic  bower. 

THE     TALISMAN. 

MY  darling  child !  beside  my  knee 

She  lingers,  pleading  low 
For  "just  one  more  sweet  fairy  tale, 

And  then  I'll  let  you  go!" 


FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD.  395 

"  So  listen,  dear,  and  I  will  tell 

How  once  to  man  was  given 
An  instrument  so  heavenly  sweet 

'Twas  thought  it  came  from  Heaven. 

"  So  daintily  its  strings  were  wrought, 

So  exquisitely  fine, 

A  breath  from  Him  who  made,  could  break 
The  talisman  divine. 

"  So  prompt,  too,  with  its  eloquent  tones, 

This  rare  device  they  say, 
That,  without  touch  of  human  hands, 
A  wish  could  bid  it  play! 

"In  radiant  Eden  first  'twas  heard, 

Harmonious,  mild,  and  clear ; 
And  at  the  sound,  each  singing-bird 
Its  warble  hush'd,  to  hear. 

"  From  thence,  with  varying  melody, 

But  never  with  a  tone 
So  pure,  so  free,  as  then  it  had, 
It  pass'd  from  sire  to  son. 

"  And  now,  in  murmurs  soft  and  low 

As  rippling  rills,  it  sang, 
And  now  with  wild,  impassion'd  flow, 
Its  clarion-music  rang! 

"  If  Love  or  Pity  tuned  the  string, 

Or  Memory  ask'd  its  aid, 
Sweet,  pleading  notes,  the  charmed  thing 
In  tender  cadence  play'd. 

"  If  Anger  touch'd  the  quivering  chords 

With  trembling  hand  of  fire, 
What  demon-tones  —  what  burning  words 
Resounded  from  the  lyre! 


I 
L. 


396  FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD. 

"  But  oh !  when  soft  Forgiveness  came, 

And  o'er  the  discord  sigh'd, — 
How  like  an  angel's  lute  of  love 
That  fairy  lyre  replied.' 

"  A  fearful  power  the  gift  possess'd, 

A  power  for  good  or  ill ; — 
Each  passion  of  the  human  breast 
Could  sweep  the  strings  at  will. 

"  And  it  could  melt  to  softest  tears, 

Or  madden  into  crime, 
The  hearts  that  heard  its  thrilling  strains, 
Wild,  plaintive,  or  sublime. 

"  The  oath  within  the  murderer's  heart, 

Fair  childhood's  sinless  prayer, 
Hope's  eager  sigh,  Affection's  vow, 
All  found  an  echo  there! 

"What  pity,  that  a  gift  so  rich, 

Attuned  by  love  divine, 
Was  thus  profaned  by  impious  man, 
At  Guilt's  unhallow'd  shrine!" 

Her  eyes  in  innocent  wonder  raised, 

As  gravely  still  1  spoke; 
The  child  into  my  face  had  gazed, 

But  now  the  pause  she  broke : — 

"  Oh !  were  it  mine,  that  wondrous  toy, 

That  but  a  wish  could  wake ! 
Mamma,  't  would  be  my  pride,  my  joy, 
Soft  melody  to  make ! 

"The  evil  spirits,  tempting  youth, 

Should  ne'er  approach  my  treasure, 
I'd  keep  it  pure  for  Love,  for  Truth, 
For  Pity,  Hope,  and  Pleasure! 


FRANCES     S.     OS  GOOD. 

"And  they  should  play  so  blest  a  strain- 

Upon  th'  enchanted  lyre, 
That  Heaven  would  claim  it  back  againy 
To  join  its  own  sweet  choir." 

"Keep,  keep,  my  child,  that  promise  still, 

c  The  wondrous  toy'  is  thine ! 
E'en  now  thy  spirit  tuned  it;  —  'tis 
The  human  voice  divine  I 

"  Oh !  ask  of  Heaven  to  teach  thy  tongue 

A  true,  a  reverent  tone, — 
Full  oft  attuned  to  praise  and  prayer, 
And  still  to  vice  unknown ! 

"  And  rather  be  it  mute  for  ayey 

Than  yield  its  music  sweet 
To  Malice,  Scorn,  Impurity, 
To  Slander,  or  Deceit ! 

"  Degrade  not  thou  the  instrument 

That  God  has  given  to  thee, 
But  till  its  latest  breath  be  spent, 
Let   Conscience  keep  the  key!" 


LITTLE     CHILDREN. 

"Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven." 

AND  yet  we  check  and  chide 
The  airy  angels  as  they  float  about  us, 
With  rules  of  so-call'd  wisdom,  till  they  grow 
The  same  tame  slaves  to  custom  and  the  world. 
And  day  by  day  the  fresh  frank  soul  that  look'd 
Out  of  those  wistful  eyes,  and  smiling  play'd 
With  the  wild  roses  of  that  changing  cheek, 
34 


398 


FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD. 


And  modulated  all  those  earnest  tones, 

And  danced  in  those  light  foot-falls  to  a  tune 

Heart-heard  by  them,  inaudible  to  us, 

Folds  closer  its  pure  wings,  whereon  the  hues 

They  caught  in  heaven  already  pale  and  pine, 

And  shrinks  amazed  and  scared  back  from  our  gaze. 

And  so  the  evil  grows.     The  graceful  flower 

May  have  its  own  sweet  way  in  bud  and  bloom  ; 

May  drink,  and  dare  with  upturn'd  gaze,  the  light, 

Or  nestle  'neath  the  guardian  leaf,  or  wave 

Its  fragrant  bells  to  ever-roving  breeze, 

Or  wreathe  with  blushing  grace  the  fragile  spray 

In  bashful  loveliness.     The  wild  wood-bird 

May  plume  at  will  his  wings,  and  soar  or  sing. 

The  mountain  brook  may  wind  where'er  it  would, 

Dash  in  wild  music  down  the  deep  ravine, 

Or,  rippling  drowsily  in  forest  haunts, 

Dream  of  the  floating  cloud,  the  waving  flower, 

And  murmur  to  itself  sweet  lulling  words 

In  broken  tones  so  like  the  faltering  speech 

Of  early  childhood ;    but  our  human  flowers, 

Our  soul-birds,  caged  and  pining,  they  must  sing 

And  grow  not  as  their  own  but  our  caprice 

Suggests,  and  so  the  blossom  and  the  lay 

Are  but  half  bloom  and  music  at  the  best. 

And  if  by  chance  some  brave  and  buoyant  soul, 

More  bold  or  less  forgetful  of  the  lessons 

God  taught  them  first,  disdain  the  rule  —  the  bar  — 

And,  wildly  beautiful,  rebellious  rise, — 

How  the  hard   world,  half  startled  from  itself, 

Frowns  the  bright  wanderer  down,  or  turns  away, 

Or  leaves  her  lonely  in  her  upward  path. 

Thank  God!    to  such  His  smile  is  not  denied. 


FRANCES     S  .     OSGOOD.  399 

TO     A     DEAR     LITTLE     TRUANT, 

WHO  WOULDN'T  COME  HOME. 

WHEN  are  you  coming  ?    the  flowers  have  come  ! 

Bees  in  the  balmy  air  happily  hum; 

In  the  dim  woods  where  the  cool  mosses  are, 

Gleams  the  Anemone's  little,  light  star; 

Tenderly,  timidly  down  in  the  dell, 

Sighs  the  sweet  violet,  droops  the  harebell:  — 

Soft  in  the  wavy  grass  lightens  the  dew; 

Spring  keeps  her  promises,  —  why  do  not  you? 

Up  in  the  blue  air,  the  clouds  are  at  play, — 
You  are  more  graceful  and  lovely  than  they ; 
Birds  in  the  branches  sing  all  the  day  long, — 
When  are  you  coming  to  join  in  their  song  ? 
Fairer  than  flowers,  and  fresher  than  dew! 
Other  sweet  things  are  here,  —  why  are  not  you? 

Why  do  n't  you  come  ?    we  've  welcomed  the  Rose  ! 

Every  light  zephyr,  as  gaily  it  goes, 

Whispers  of  other  flowers,  met  on  its  way, 

Why  has  it  nothing  of  you,  love,  to  say  ? 

Why  does  it  tell  us  of  music  and  dew  ? 

Rose  of  the  South !   we  are  waiting  for  you  ! 

Do  not  delay,  darling,  'mid  the  dark  trees, 

"Like  a  lute"  murmurs  the  musical  breeze; 

Sometimes  the  brook,  as  it  trips  by  the  flowers, 

Hushes  its  warble  to  listen  for  yours. 

Pure  as  the  rivulet,  —  lovely  and  true! 

Spring  should  have  waited  till  she  could  bring  you ! 


400  FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD. 

A    MOTHER'S    PRAYER    IN    ILLNESS. 

YES!    lake  them  first,  my  Father!     Let  my  doves 

Fold  their  white  wings  in  Heaven,  safe  on  thy  breast, 

Ere  I  arn  call'd  away !    I  dare  not  leave 

Their  young  hearts  here,  their  innocent,  thoughtless  hearts! 

Ah  !    how  the  shadowy  train  of  future  ills 

Comes  sweeping  down  life's  vista  as  J  gaze ! 

My  May!    my  careless,  ardent-temper'd  May; 
My  frank  and  frolic  child  !    in  whose  blue  eyes 
Wild  joy  and  passionate  wo  alternate  rise; 
Whose  cheek,  the  morning  in  her  soul  illumes  ; 
Whose  little,  loving  heart,  a  word,  a  glance, 
Can  sway  to  grief  or  glee ;    who  leaves  her  plav, 
And  puts  up  her  sweet  mouth  and  dimpled  arms, 
Each  moment  for  a  kiss,  and  softly  asks. 
With  her  clear,  flute-like  voice,  u  Do  you  love  me  ?" 
Ah!    let  me  stay!    ah!    let  me  still  be  by, 
To  answer  her  and  meet  her  warm  caress ! 
For  I  away,  how  oft  in  this  rough  world, 
That  earnest  question  will  be  ask'd  in  vain! 
How  oft  that  eager,  passionate,  petted  heart, 
Will  shrink  abash'd  and  chill'd,  to  learn  at  length 
The  hateful,  withering  lesson  of  distrust! 
Ah  !    let  her  nestle  still  upon  this  breast, 
In  which  each  shade,  that  dims  her  darling  face, 
Is  felt  and  answer'd,  as  the  lake  reflects 
The  clouds  that  cross  yon  smiling  heaven!   and  thou  — 
My  modest  Ellen!    tender,  thoughtful,  true; 
Thy  soul  attuned  to  all  sweet  harmonies; 
My  pure,  proud,  noble  Ellen  !    with  thy  gifts 
Of  genius,  grace,  and  loveliness,  half  hidden 
'Neath  the  soft  veil  of  innate  modesty, 
How  will  the  world's  wild  discord  reach  thy  heart 
To  startle  and  appal !    thy  generous  scorn 


FRANCES     S.     OSGOOD.  401 

Of  all  things  base  and  mean  —  thy  quick,  keen  taste, 

Dainty  and  delicate  —  thy  instinctive  fear 

Of  those  unworthy  of  a  soul  so  pure, 

Thy  rare,  unchildlike  dignity  of  mien, 

All — they  will  all  bring  pain  to  thee,  my  child! 

And  oh !    if  even  their  grace  and  goodness  meet 

Cold  looks  and  careless  greetings,  how  will  all 

The  latent  evil  yet  undisciplined 

In  their  young,  timid  souls,  forgiveness  find  ? 

Forgiveness,  and  forbearance,  and  soft  chidings, 

Which  1  —  their  mother  —  learnM  of  Love  to  give! 

Ah!    let  me  stay!  —  albeit  my  heart  is  weary, 

Weary  and  worn,  tired  of  its  own  sad  beat, 

That  finds  no  echo  in  this  busy  world 

Which  cannot  pause  to  answer  —  tired  alike 

Of  joy  and  sorrow  —  of  the  day  and  night! 

Ah  !  take  them  first,  my  Father !   and  then  me ; 

And  for  their  sakes  —  for  their  sweet  sakes,  my  Father! 

Let  me  find  rest  beside  them,  at  thy  feet! 

THE     CHILD     PLAYING     WITH     A     WATCH. 

ART  thou  playing  with  Time  in  thy  sweet  baby-glee? 
Will  he  pause  on  his  pinions  to  frolic  with  thee? 
Oh  !    show  him  those  shadowless,  innocent  eyes, 
That  smile  of  bewilder'd  and  beaming  surprise ; 
Let  him  look  on  that  cheek  where  thy  rich  hair  reposes, 
Where  dimples  are  playing  "  bopeep "  with  the  roses; 
His  wrinkled  brow  press  with  light  kisses  and  warm. 
And  clasp  his  rough  neck  with  thy  soft  wreathing  arm. 
Perhaps  thy  bewitching  and  infantine  sweetness 
May   win  him,  for  once,  to  delay  in  his  fleetness ; 
To  pause,  ere  lie  rifle,  relentless  in  flight, 
A  blossom  so  glowing  of  bloom  and  of  light. 
Then,  then   would   I  keep  thee,  my  beautiful  child, 
With  thy  blue  eyes  unshadow'd,  thy  blush  undefiled ; 
34*  2  A 


402  THE     SISTERS     OF     THE     WEST. 

With  thy  innocence  only  to  guard  thee  from  ill, 
In  life's  sunny  dawning,  a  lily-bud  still ! 
Laugh  on!   my  own  Ellen!    that  voice,  which  to  me 
Gives  a  warning  so  solemn,  makes  music  for  thee; 
And  while  I  at  those  sounds  feel  the  idler's  annoy, 
Thou  hear'st  but  the  tick  of  the  pretty  gold  toy; 
Thou  seest  but  a  smile  on  the  brow  of  the  churl, 
May  his  frown  never  awe  thee,  my  own  baby-girl. 
And  oh  !    may  his  step,  as  he  wanders  with  thee, 
Light  and  soft  as  thine  own  little  fairy-tread  be! 
While  still  in  all  seasons,  in  storms  and  fair  weather, 
May  Time  and  my  Ellen  be  playmates  together. 


THE  SISTERS  OF  THE  WEST. 

Two  volumes  of  the  joint  productions  of  these  united  sisters  have  been 
given  to  the  world  :  the  first  in  1843,  called  The  Wife  of  Leon  and 
other  Poems,  which  was  published  anonymously,  or  with  the  title  with 
which  we  have  headed  our  sketch ;  the  second  in  1846,  namely,  The 
Indian  Chamber  and  other  Poems,  by  Mrs.  Catherine  Ann  Warfield, 
and  Mrs.  Eleanor  Percy  Lee.  Of  their  outward  life  we  know  nothing. 
It  commenced,  we  believe,  at  Natchez,  Mississippi,  and  one  of  them, 
Mrs.  Warfield,  resides  at  Grasmere,  near  Lexington,  Kentucky.  That 
their  inward  life  is  full  of  poetic  beauty,  and  of  the  sweet  yet  mournful 
enchantment  bestowed  by  true  sentiment  and  strong  imagination,  may 
be  seen  by  all  who  read  their  poems.  There  is  something  touching  and 
noble  about  their  sisterly  union, — the  purest,  holiest,  most  undecaying 
friendship  their  souls  will  ever  know.  We  love  to  think  upon  it! 
Whether  Mrs.  Lee  has  more  original  talent  than  Mrs.  Warfield,  or 
Mrs.  Warfield  writes  with  greater  ease  than  Mrs.  Lee,  is  entirely  con 
cealed  by  their  generous  affection. 


.J 


THE     SISTERS     OF     THE     WEST.  403 


A     VALLEY     OF     VIRGINIA. 

A  LOi\G  deep  valley  —  narrow,  silent,  shaded 

By  lofty  trees — the  young,  the  old,  the  seer; 
It  lies  where  footstep  seldom  has  invaded 

The  haunts  and  coverts  of  the  graceful  deer. 
The  silver  sound  of  a  small  fountain,  springing 

From  the  green  bosom  of  the  shaded  earth, 
With  its  blithe,  mellow  and  eternal  singing, 

Is  there  the  only  voice  that  tells  of  mirth. 

For  all  the  day  the  ringdove's  note  complaining, 

Fills  with  its  murmurs  sad  the  dusky  air; 
And  when  the  twilight  solemnly  is  waning, 

The  sullen  owl  shrieks  wildly,  harshly  there. 
The  young  fawn  starts,  as  o'er  the  fountain  bending 

To  quaff  the  water  sparkling  to  the  brim, 
He  hears  the  savage  cadence,  far  ascending 

Through  the  still  evening  air  and  forest  dim. 

The  grass  is  full  of  wild  flowers,  and  they  render 


A  fragrance,  strangely  delicate  and  fine 


And  the  young  cedars,  tall,  erect  and  slender, 

Grow  wreathed  around   with  many  a  clinging  vine. 

The  purple  clusters,  'mid  the  shadows  falling, 
Invite  the  bird  to  leave  his  leafy  hall, 

And,  in  low  melodies,  you  hear  him  calling 
His  brooding  mate  to  share  his  festival. 

Vale  of  Virginia !  oft  my  spirit  turneth 
From  crowded  cities  to  thy  deep  repose ; 

And  with  a  sick  and  weary  aching,  yearneth 
To  bear  unto  thy  gloom  its  weight  of  woes, 

And  dwell  within  thy  shadows ;  there  repelling 
All  worldly  forms,  all  vanities  of  earth, 


404  THE     SISTERS     OF     THE     WEST. 

I  would  uprear  a  rude  and  moss-crown'd  dwelling, 
And  muse  above  a  solitary  hearth. 

There  would  I  summon  many  a  vanish'd  vision, 

Around  my  threshold  and  my  couch  to  draw; 
And  far  from  earthly  fane,  and  man's  derision, 

Adore,  according  to  the  living  law. 
There,  when  mine  eyes  had  closed  in  sleep  eternal, 

Still  would  f  wish  to  take  my  quiet  rest, 
Shrined  in  that  solitude  profound  and  vernal, 

The  boughs  above,  the  wild  flowers  on  my  breast. 


LINES. 

"You  must  make 

That  heart  a  tomb,  and  in  it  bury  deep 
Its  young  and  beautiful  feelings." 

BAIUIT  CORNWALL. 


LAY  them,  lay  them,  in  their  graves, 

Those  feelings,  deep  and  fine; 
Henceforth  their  marble  tomb  shall  be 

The'  heart  that  was  their  shrine. 
Bury  them  with  a-11  the  dreams 

Of  those  departed  years, 
When  joy  was  all  too  bright  for  smiles  ! 

And  grief  too  deep  for  tears  f 

Close  within  that  stony  vault, 

Which  never  more  shall  ope, 
The  bitterness  of  memory, 

The  feverishness  of  hope, 
The  yearnings  deep  for  sympathyy 

That  deep  within  thee  dwell, 
The  love  that  finds  no  answering  flame, 

And  sickens  in  its  cell. 


THE     SISTERS     OF     THE     WEST.  405 

Spread,  O  spread  above  that  tomb 

A  pall  of  purple  pride, 
To  veil  the  darkness  and  the  gloom 

That  'neath  its  folds  abide. 
Bear  thee  gaily  in  the  dance, 

And  proudly  in  the  hall; 
I  charge  thee,  let  no  eye  behold 

What  moulders  'neath  that  pall. 

It  is  thus  that  I  have  done. 

For  such  hath  been  my  doom ; 
My  heart  was  once  a  fiery  shrine, 

And  now  it  is  —  a  tomb! 
My  heart  was  once  a  storm-swept  sea, 

And  now  it  is  that  lake, 
O'er  \vhose  dead  surface  tempests  rush, 

Nor  bid  its  waters  wake. 

Yet  the  ghosts  of  those  dead  thoughts, 

Those  buried  hopes  and  fears, 
They  rise  at  times  across  the  soul, 

Recalling  vanish'd  years  : 
They  float  in  dim  and  pale  array, 

Those  phantoms  of  the  past; 
They  freeze  my  blood — they  chill  rny  brain, 

As  with  an  iceland  blast. 

Oh !  the  spectres  of  the  soul, 

How  fearfully  they  rise; 
Each  looking  from  its  fleecy  shroud 

With  cold,  clear  spirit  eyes. 
How  chill  a  print  their  icy  feet 

Leave  on  the  burning  brain; 
How  bleak  a  shadow  do  they  cast, 

That  dim  and  awful  train. 


406  THE     SISTERS     OF     THE     WEST. 

Back  to  your  cells,  ye  fleeting  things, 

I  do  command  ye,  back! 
Obey  the  sceptre  of  despair, 

Retrace  your  ghostly  track. 
Back  to  your  tomb  where  ye  were  pent, 

Like  the  frail  nuns  of  old, 
Ere  yet  the  grief  that  was  your  life 

Was  waxing  faint  and  cold. 


THE     PALACES     OF     ARABT. 

"Oh,  the  heart, 

Too  vivid  in  its  lightened   energies, 
May  read  its  fate  in  sunny  Araby! 
How  lives  its  beauty  in  each  eastern  tale  — 
Its  growth  of  spices,  and  its  groves  of  balm  — 
These  are  exhausted;  ;.nd    what  is  it  now?  — 
A   wild  and  burning  wilderness." 

Miss  LANDOIC. 

THE  Palaces  of  Araby  !  how  brautiful  they  were, 

Hearing  their  golden  pinnacles  unto  the  sunny  air, 

'Mid  fragrant   groves    of   spice,  and  balm,  and    waving   orange 

trees, 
And  clear-toned  fountains  sparkling  up  to  kiss  the  passing  breeze. 

The  Palaces  of  Araby!  oh,  still  there  is  a  dream, 

A  vision,  on  my  brain  of  all,  as   long  extinct  and  dim ; 

They  rise  upon  my  fancy  yet,  vast,  beautiful  and  grand, 

As  in  past  centuries  they  stood  through  all  that  radiant  land. 

The  Palaces  of  Araby !  pale  forms  of  marble  mould 
Were  ranged  in  every  stately  hall,  white,  glittering  and    cold; 
And  urns  of  massive  crystal  bright  stood  on  each  marble  floor, 
Where  odours  of  a  thousand  lands  burn'd  brightly  evermore. 

The  Palaces  of  Araby  !  vast  mirrors,  shrined  in  gold, 

Gave  back  from  every  lofty  wall  splendour  a  thousand  fold; 


THE     SISTERS     OF     THE     WEST.  407 

And  the  gleaming  of  uncounted  gems,  and  the  blaze  of  odorous 

light, 
Stream'd  down  from  every  fretted  dome,  magnificently  bright. 

I  see  them  now,  "  so  fancy  deems,"  those  bright  Arabian  girls, 

Binding,  with  glittering  gems  and  flowers,  their  dark  and  flow 
ing  curls, 

Or  sweeping,  with  their  long,  rich  robes,  throughout  those 
marble  halls, 

Or  holding,  in  their  rose-clad  bowers,  gay,  gorgeous  festivals. 

I  see  them  now,  "so  fancy  deems,"  those  warriors   high  and 

bold, 
Draining  their  draughts  of  ruby  wine    from    cups    of  massive 

gold, 

Or  dashing  on  their  battle  steeds,  like  meteors,  to  the  war, 
With    the    dazzling    gleam    of   helm    and    shield    and   jewelled 

scimitar. 

That  dream  hath  fled,  that  pageant  pass'd  —  unreal  things  and 

vain, 

Why  rise  ye  up  so  vividly,  so  brightly,  to  my  brain? 
The  desert  hath  no  palaces,  the  sands  no  fountain  stream. 
And    the    brave   and   beautiful    are    frail   and    shadowy  as    my 

dream. 

The  Palaces  of  Araby !  oh,  there  is  not  a  stone 

To  mark   the    splendour   and    the    pride,  for  ever  crushed  and 

gone  ; 
The  lonely  traveller  hears    no   more    the    sound    of  harp   and 

lute, 
And  the  fountain  voices,  glad  and  clear,  for  evermore  are  mute. 

Lost  Araby  !  lost  Araby !  the  world's  extinguish'd  light, 
Thou  liest  dark  and  desolate,  a  thing  of  shame  and  blight; 
Rome  hath  her  lofty  ruins  yet  —  Greece  smiles  amid  her  tears; 
In  thee  alone  we  find  no  trace,  no  wreck,  of  other  years. 


408  THE     SISTERS     OF     THE     WEST. 

BURY     HER     WITH     HER     SHINING     HAIR 

BURY  her  with  her  shining  hair 

Around  her  streaming  bright; 
Bury  her  with  those  locks  so  rare 

Enrobing  her  in  light. 
As  saints,  who  in  their  native  sky 

Their  golden  haloes  wear, 
Around  her  forehead,  pure  and  high, 

Enwreathe  her  shining  hair. 

She  was  too  frail  on  earth  to  stay, 

I  never  saw  a  face 
On  which,  of  premature  decay 

Was  set  so  plain  a  trace. 
She  was  too  pure  to  linger  here, 

Amid  the  homes  of  earth  ; 
Her  spirit  in  another  sphere 

Had  its  immortal  birth. 

She  was  not  one  to  live  and  love 

Arnid  earth's  fading  things ; 
Her  being  had  its  home  above, 

And  spread    immortal  wings. 
And  around  her  now,  as  still  she  sleeps 

Encofiin'd  in  her  prime, 
No  eye  in  anguish'd  sorrow  weeps, 

For  grief  is  here  sublime. 

Even  while  she  lived,  an  awe  was  cast 

Around  her  loveliness ; 
It  seem'd  as  if,  whene'er  she  pass'd, 

A  spirit  came  to  bless. 
A  child  upraised  its  tiny  hands, 

And  cried  —  uOh,  weep  no  more, 
Mother!  behold  an  angel  stands 

Before  our  cottage  door." 


r 


MARIA     LOWELL.  409 

We  would  not  bring  her  back  to  life, 

With  word,  or  charm,  or  sign  — 
Nor  yet  recall  to  scenes  of  strife 

A  creature  all  divine. 
We  would  not  even  ask  to  shred 

One  tress  of  golden  gleam, 
That  o'er  that  fair  and  perfect  head 

Sheds  a  refulgent  beam. 

No! lay  her  with  her  shining  hair 

Around  her  flowing  bright; 
We  would  riot  keep,  of  one  so  rare, 

Memorials  in  our  sight. 
Too  harsh  a  shade  would  seem  to  lie 

On  all  things  here  beneath, 
If  we  beheld  one  token  by, 

Of  her  who  sleeps  in  death. 


MARIA  LOWELL. 

MARIA  WHITE,  the  daughter  of  an  opulent  citizen  of  Watertown, 
Massachusetts,  in  1844  was  married  to  James  Russell  Lowell ;  and  for 
her  genius,  taste,  and  many  admirable  personal  qualities,  she  is  worthy 
to  be  the  wife  of  that  fine  poet  and  true-hearted  man.  She  has  pub 
lished  several  elegant  translations  from  the  German,  and  a  large  num 
ber  of  original  poems  of  the  imagination,  some  of  which  illustrate 
questions  of  morals  and  humanity.  Some  of  her  most  beautiful  poems 
are  written  in  behalf  of  Abolition,  a  cause  which  she  and  her  hus 
band  aid  very  efficiently  by  their  zealous  eloquence. 


35 


410  MARIA     LOWELL. 


JESUS     AND     THE     DOVE. 

With  patient  hand  Jesus  in  clay  once  wrought, 
And  made  a  snowy  dove  that  upward  flew. 

Dear  child,  from  all  things  draw  some  holy  thought, 
That,  like  his  dove,  they  may  fly  upward  too. 

MARY,  the  mother  good  and  mild, 
Went  forth  one  summer's  day, 

That  Jesus  and  his  comrades  all 
In  meadows  green  might  play. 

To  find  the  brightest,  freshest  flowers, 
They  search  the  meadows  round, 

They  twined  them  all  into  a  wreath, 
And  little  Jesus  crown'd. 

Weary  with  play,  they  came  at  last 

And  sat  at  Mary's  feet, 
While  Jesus  ask'd  his  mother  dear 

A  story  to  repeat. 

"And  we,"  said  one,  "from  out  this  clay 

Will  make  some  little  birds; 
So  shall  we  all  sit  quietly, 

And  heed  the  mother's  words." 

Then  Mary,  in  her  gentle  voice, 

Told  of  a  little  child 
Who  lost  her  way  one  dark,  dark  night, 

Upon  a  dreary  wild ; 

And  how  an  angel  came  to  her, 

And  made  all  bright  around, 
And  took  the  trembling  little  one 

From  off  the  damp,  hard  ground ; 


MARIA     LOWELL. 

And  how  he  bore  her  in  his  arms 

Up  to  the  blue  so  far, 
And  how  he  laid  her  fast  asleep, 

Down  in  a  silver  star. 

The  children  sit  at  Mary's  feet, 

But  not  a  word  they  say, 
So  busily  their  ringers  work 

To  mould  the  birds  of  clay. 

But  now  the  clay  that  Jesus  held, 

And  turn'd  unto  the  light. 
And  moulded  with  a  patient  touch, 

Changed  to  a  perfect  white. 

And  slowly  grew  within  his  hands 

A  fair  and  gentle  dove, 
Whose  eyes  unclose,  whose  wings  unfold 

Beneath  his  look  of  love. 

The  children  drop  their  birds  of  clay, 

And  by  his  side  they  stand, 
To  look  upon  the  wondrous  dove 

He  holds  within  his  hand. 

And  when  he  bends  and  softly  breathes, 
Wide  are  the  wings  outspread ; 

And  when  he  bends  and  breathes  again, 
It  hovers  round  his  head. 

Slowly  it  rises  in  the  air 

Before  their  eager  eyes, 
And,  with  a  white  and  steady  wing, 

Higher  and  higher  flies. 

The  children  all  stretch  forth  their  arms 

As  if  to  draw  it  down : 
"  Dear  Jesus  made  the  little  dove 

From  out  the  clay  so  brown  — 


411 


I 

L. 


412  MARIA     LOWELL. 

'•Canst  thou  not  live  with  us  below, 
Thou  little  dove  of  clay, 

And  let  us  hold  thee  in  our  hands, 
And  feed  thee  every  day  ? 

"The  little  dove  it  hears  us  not, 
But  higher  still  doth  fly; 

It  could  not  live  with  us  below  — 
Its  home  is  in  the  sky." 

Mary,  who  silently  saw  all  — 
That  mother  true  and  mild  — 

Folded  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 
And  kneel'd  before  her  child. 


SONG. 

OH,  Bird,  thou  dartest  to  the  sun 

When  morning  beams  first  spring, 
And   I,  like  thee,  would  swiftly  run, 

As  sweetly  would  I  sing; 
Thy  burning  heart  doth  draw  thee  up 

Unto  the  source  of  fire  — 
Thou  drinkest  from  its  glowing  cup, 

And  quenchest  thy  desire. 

Oh,  Dew,  thou  droppest  soft  below 

And  pearlest  all  the  ground; 
Yet  when  the  noontide  comes,  I  know 

Thou  never  canst  be  found. 
I  would  like  thine  had  been  my  birth; 

Then   I,  without  a  sigh, 
Might  sleep  the  night  through  on  the  earth, 

To  waken  in  the  sky. 


MARIA     LOWELL.  413 

Oh,  Clouds,  ye  little  tender  sheep, 

Pastured  in  fields  of  blue, 
While  moon  and  stars  your  fold  can  keep 

And  gently  shepherd  you  — 
Let  me,  too,  follow  in  the  train 

That  flocks  across  the  night, 
Or  lingers  on  the  open  plain 

With  new-wash'd  fleeces  white. 

Oh,  singing  Windsr  that  wander  fary 

Yet  always  seem  at  home, 
And  freely  play  'twixt  star  and  star 

Along  the  bending  dome  — 
I  often  listen  to  your  song, 

Yet  never  hear  you  say 
One  word  of  all  the  happy  world* 

That  shine  so  far  away. 

For  they  are  free,  ye  all  are  free  — 

And  Bird,  and  Dew,  and  Light, 
Can  dart  upon  the  azure  sea, 

And  leave  me  to  my  night. 
Oh,  would  like  theirs  had  been  my  birth : 

Then  I,  without  a  sigh, 
Might  sleep  this  night  through  on  the  earth, 

To  waken  in  the  sky. 


THE     MORNING-GLORY. 

WE  wreathed  about  our  darling's  head 
The  morning-glory  bright; 

Her  little  face  look'd  out  beneath, 
So  full  of  life  and  light, 

So  lit  as  with  a  sunrise, 

That  we  could  only  say, 
35* 


414  MARIA     LOW  ELL. 

"  She  is  the  morning-glory  true, 
And  her  poor  types  are  they." 

So  always  from  that  happy  time 

We  call'd  her  by  their  name, 
And  very  fitting  did  it  seem  — 

For,  sure  as  morning  came, 
Behind  her  cradle  bars  she  smiled 

To  catch  the  first  faint  ray, 
As  from  the  trellis  smiles  the  flower 

And  opens  to  the  day. 

But  not  so  beautiful  they  rear 

Their  airy  cups  of  blue, 
As  turn'd  her  sweet  eyes  to  the  light, 

Brimm'd  with  sleep's  tender  dew ; 
And  not  so  close  their  tendrils  fine 

Round  their  supports  are  thrown, 
As  those  dear  arms  whose  outstretch'd  plea 

Clasp'd  all  hearts  to  her  own. 

We  used  to  think  how  she  had  come, 

Even  as  comes  the  flower, 
The  last  and  perfect  added  gift 

To  crown  love's  morning  hour, 
And  how  in  her  was  imaged  forth 

The  love  we  could  not  say, 
As  on  the  little  dewdrops  round 

Shines  back  the  heart  of  day. 

We  never  could  have  thought,  O  God, 

That  she  must  wither  up, 
Almost  before  a  day  was  flown, 

Like  the  morning-glory's  cup; 
We  never  thought  to  see  her  droop 

Her  fair  and  noble  head, 
Till  she  lay  stretch'd  before  our  eyes, 

Wilted,  and  cold,  and  dead ! 


MARY     L.     SEWARD.  415 

The  morning-glory's  blossoming 

Will  soon  be  coming  round  : 
We  see  their  rows  of  heart-shaped  leaves 

Upspringing  from  the  ground; 
The  tender  things  the  winter  kill'd 

Renew  again  their  birth, 
But  the  glory  of  our  morning 

Has  pass'd  away  from  earth. 

Oh,  Earth !  in  vain  our  aching  eyes 

Stretch  over  thy  green  plain ! 
Too  harsh  thy  dews,  too  gross  thine  air, 

Her  spirit  to  sustain  : 
But  up  in  groves  of  paradise 

Full  surely  we  shall  see 
Our  morning-glory  beautiful 

Twine  round  our  dear  Lord's  knee. 


MARY  L.  SEWARD. 

MRS.  SEWARD  is  a  native  of  New  York,  and  daughter  of  Mr.  Mum- 
ford,  well  known  as  the  editor  of  The  Standard,  an  able  democratic 
journal.  She  was  married  a  few  years  since  to  a  son  of  the  Hon.  S.  S. 
Seward,  of  Orange  County,  and  is  now  a  widow.  Her  graceful  and 
pleasing  poems  frequently  appear  in  the  Churchman's  Miscellany,  and 
other  periodicals. 


SYMPATHY. 

COME  thou  with  me — thy  clasped  hand  in  mine  — 
I  '11  tell  tliee  o'er  the  story  of  thy  heart ; 

I'll  tell  thee  how  my  spirit  springs  to  thine, 
I'll  bid  the  shadows  from  thy  brow  depart. 


416  MARYL.     SEWARD. 

Ah!    earnestly  I've  mark'd  thee  day  by  day, 
And  ever  day  by  day  with  saddening  thought; 

I  've  seen  thy  purest  feelings  thrown  away, 

And  mourn'd  the  inward  woe  such  waste  hath  wrought. 

Life?s  favoured  child,  for  ever  round  thee  spring 
Immortal  flowers  of  love  and  beauty  rare  ; 

And  still  the  incense  they  around  thee  fling 

Charms  not  thy  senses  from  their  spell  of  care, — 

Lures  not  thy  spirit  from  its  wayward  dreams, 
Beguiles  thee  not  the  livelong,  dreary  day, 

Awakes  thee  not  to  bless  the  sunny  beams 

That  fain  would  light  thee  on  thy  weary  way! 

Thou  sighest  still  for  something  not  thine  own, 
Some  precious  thing  that  ever  mocks  thy  sigh, 

Some  phantom  form  of  love,  that  long  hath  flown 
Above^  beyond,  thy  watchful,  eager  eye. 

Oh!    sigh  no  more,  and  bid  thy  dreams  begone! 

Let  waking  visions  all  thy  pain  beguile  : 
Nay,  turn  not  thy  reproachful  gaze  on  one 

Whose  all  of  life  is  centred  in  thy  smile. 

If  holiest  love  dwelt  not  within  my  soul, 

Dost  think  that  I  could  read  thy  soul  aright? 

Dost  think  that   I   would  thus  fling  off  control, 
And  all  my  inner  self  reveal   to  sight  ? 

I've  not  a  selfish  thought,  when  thou  art  near; 

My  loving  heart,  with  all  the  might  it  hath, 
Forgetting  self,  but  longs,  with  trembling  fear, 

To  be  the  guardian  angel  of  thy  path. 

From  all  that  grieves  thee  now  thyself  to  win, 

And  make  a  paradise  on  earth  for  thee, 
Where,  though  the  serpent  Care  may  enter  in, 

He  '11  linger  not,  for  Love  will  bid  him  flee. 


MARY     L.      SEWARD.  417 


JESUS 

"And  it  came  to  pass  in  those  days  that  He  went  out  into  a  mountain 
to  pray,  and  continued  all  night  in  prayer  to  GOD.''  —  Luke  vi.  12. 

'Tis  night!   and  weary  eyes  in  slumber  closing, 
Woo  the  soft  presence  of  ethereal  dreams  : 

'Tis  night!    from  restless  thought  and  toil  reposing, 
The  land  in  silence  lies,  till  morning  beams. 

Far  up  the  mountain's  rugged  steep  ascending, 
One  only  watcher  sleepeth  not  for  care  ; 

Yet  angels  from  their  starry  thrones  are  bending, 
With  pausing  harps;    for  lo !    HE   kneels  in  prayer. 

The  night  dews  coldly  on  His  form  are  falling, 
Rudely  the  winds  those  sacred  temples  smite  : 

But  still  lone  echo  hears   Him  sadly  calling 
With  voice  importunate  to  GOD  all  night. 

What  mighty  theme  his  secret  thought  engaging, 
Detains  the  u  Man  of  sorrows"  humbly  there? 

What  fearful  woe,  His  anxious  soul  presaging, 
Would  he  avert  with  breath  of  pleading  prayer  ? 

Ah!    for  His  Church,  the  Sinless  One  beseecheth ; 

His  Church,  that  trembling  'mid  her  hopes  and  fears, 
He  sees,   with  prescient  gaze  that  onward  reacheth 

Through  the  long  vista  of  time-shadow'd  years. 

Amid  the  wilderness,  he  marks  her  failing, 
Her  steps  by  fierce  temptation  led  aside; 

Her  robes  of  light,  her  glorious  garments  trailing 
O'er  paths  unmeet  for  the  Eternal   Bride. 

And  He  would  shield  her  in  her  trial   hour, 

Would  keep  her  drooping  children  from  despair; 

Would  give  her  strength  to  guard  her  priceless  dower 
Of  faith  and  love  —  her  martyr's  crown  to  wear. 
2B 


418  ANNE     M.     F.     ANNAN. 

Thou,  on  whose  heart,  wild  waves  of  sorrow  beating, 
Would  seem  to  whelm  with  darkness  all  thy  life, 

Think,  when  with  joy,  thou  seest  them  back  retreating, 
It  was  thy   Saviour's  prayer  that  hush'd  their  strife. 

Thou  too,  upon  whose  pathway  ever  blending 
Are  light  and  beauty,  blessing  thee  alway; 

Think,  on  His  heart  He  bore  thee  when  ascending 
That  lonely  mountain,  where  He  knelt  to  pray. 

Oh !   think  of  Him,  the  while  thy  vigils  number 
Scarce  one  brief  hour,  passing  so  soon  away ; 

And  rouse  thy  spirit  from  its  dreamy  slumber, 
Like  him,  unceasingly  to  "  watch  and  pray." 


ANNE  M.  F.  ANNAN. 

MRS.  ANNAN  \vas  born  in  Pennsylvania.  Her  father,  Mr.  Buchanan, 
was  engaged  several  years  in  the  iron  manufacture  in  a  secluded  district 
of  Dauphin  County;  and  in  the  beautiful  river  and  mountain  scenery 
of  this  region  her  childhood  and  youth  were  passed.  In  1840,  she  was 
married  to  Dr.  Samuel  Annan,  of  Baltimore ;  where  she  resided  until 
1846,  when  Dr.  Annan  was  elected  to  a  professorship  in  Transylvania 
University ;  since  which  event  their  home  has  been  in  Lexington, 
Kentucky.  Before  her  marriage,  Mrs.  Annan  published  a  great  many 
fugitive  poems  which  possessed  considerable  merit ;  showing  a  lively 
fancy,  and  an  ear  for  rhythm.  She  seldom  writes  poetry  now,  but 
uses  her  talent  for  composition  in  furnishing  stories  for  the  magazines, 
with  equal  ingenuity  and  rapidity. 


J 


ANNE     M.     F.     ANNAN.  419 


THE     DAUGHTER    OF     THE     BLIND. 

MY  father  dear!  'tis  sweet  to  me 

These  calm,  soft  evening  hours, 
Thus,  with  your  hand  in  mine,  to  be 

Among  my  gentle  flowers. 
I've  planted  such  as  you  can  love, — 

Not  things  of  flaunting  bloom, 
But  such  as  seem  to  have  a  soul 

That  speaks  through  their  perfume;  — 
The  thyme  that  sheds  its  fragrance  o'er 

The  foot  by  which  't  is  trod,  — 
An  emblem  of  God's  loved,  the  meek, 

Who  kiss  the  smiting  rod ; 
And  jasmines  sweet,  which  sweeter  breathe 

The  lower  sinks  the  sun, 
Like  the  true  heart  which  fonder  grows 

As  sorrow's  night  comes  on! 

Though,  with  their  glorious  poesy, 

The  stars  to  you  are  dim, 
Does  not  each  wind  that  wafts  about 

Speak  to  you  in  a  hymn  ? 
The  very  breeze  to  which  I  give 

This  breath,  may  but  to-day, 
Have  linger'd  in  memorial  fanes 

Of  ages  pass'd  away; 
From  the  lone  mart  of  vanish'd  men 

The  desert's  sands  have  roll'd, 
And  stirr'd  the  ivy  where  the  lay 

Of  chivalry  was  troll'd  ;  — 
Oh!  while  a  thousand  themes  they  bring 

Of  temple,  tower  and  tomb, 
One  fill'd  like  thou  with  lofty  love 

Sure  cannot  live  in  gloom ! 


420  LOUISA    s.    M'CORD. 

And  when  with  snows  our  walks  are  spread, 

From  Milton's  deathless  page 
I'll  read  the  visions  seraphs  brought 

To  cheer  his  sightless  age  : 
I  '11  read  of  pageant's  proud  which  flash'd 

Through  Homer's  dawnless  night, 
And  blind  old  Ossian's  fancies  fraught 

With  shadowy  forms  of  might ; 
And  while  my  voice  is  sweet  to  you. 

And  veil'd  my  form  and  face, 
I'll  smile  that  nature  holds  from  me 

Her  gifts  of  bloom  and  grace; 
For  the  vain  world  heeds  not  the  one 

That  lacks  such  things  of  pride, 
And  will  not  bring  its  tempting  wiles 

To  lure  me  from  your  side ! 


LOUISA  S.  M'CORD, 

The  daughter  of  Judge  Langdon  Cheves,  is  a  native  of  Charleston, 
South  Carolina.  She  was  principally  educated  at  Philadelphia, 
during  her  father's  residence  in  that  city  as  president  of  the  United 
States'  Bank.  She  is  now  the  wife  of  David  J.  M'Cord,  Esq.,  and 
resides  on  her  plantation  in  St.  Matthew's  parish,  near  Fort  Motte, 
(of  revolutionary  memory,)  South  Carolina.  Her  talents  and  attain 
ments  are  of  a  superior  order ;  her  mind,  by  nature  strong,  has  been 
richly  cultivated  by  extensive  reading  of  the  best  authors.  A  volume 
of  her  poems  appeared  in  the  early  part  of  the  present  year  (1848), 
under  the  title  of  My  Dreams.  She  has  a  vivid  imagination  and  warm 
feeling,  but  they  are  not  well  disciplined  by  good  taste  and  correct 
judgment. 


LOUISA    s.    M'CORD.  421 


SPIRIT     OF     THE      STORM. 

WILD  spirit  of  the  storm,  who  rid'st  the  hlast, 

And  in  the  growling  thunder  speak'st  thy  rage, 

Would  I  could  soar  with  thee ! 
Untamed,  unfettered,  roaming  through  the  vast 

Expanse  of  universe  from  age  to  age, 

'T  is  thine,  thine !  to  be  free ! 
'Tis  mine,  to  lie,  and  grovel  in  the  dust, 

And  wonder  at  thy  might, 
And  in  admiring  amazement  lost, 

To  tremble  at  the  terrors  of  thy  fearful  night. 

But  no !  with  thee  my  spirit  longs  to  rise, 

It  doth  not  tremble.  —  Genius  of  the  storm! 

Thou  art  but  tameless,  wild, 
As  I  would  be,  could  I  enfranchise 

My  chain'd  being, — cast  off  the  grovelling  worm — 

Nature's  untamed  storm-child, 
With  thee  the  whirlwind  in  its  might  I'd  ride, 

Revel  in  the  howling  blast, 
Play  with  the  fork'd  lightnings,  and  deride 

The  timorous  world,  by  thee  with  weary  fears  harass'd. 

Borne  on  the  hurricane's  extended  wing, 

And  in  the  whirlwind  sweeping  over  earth  — 

Then  in  the  billowy  deep, 
To  wake  the  voice  of  Discord,  mastering 

The  ocean's  stillness,  to  riot  giving  birth 

In  those  still  caves,  where  sleep 
In  silent  majesty  is  wont  to  reign, 

Would  I  could  roam  with  thee ! 
The  throbbing  wish  bounds  in  my  every  vein, 

Wild  spirit  of  the  storm !  like  thee,  I  would  be  free. 

36 


422 


'TIS  BUT  THEE,  LOVE,  ONLY  THEE, 

WHERE  the  sunbeam  glanceth  brightest, 
There,  my  love,  1  think  on  thee. 

Where  the  summer  breeze  is  lightest, 
Still  of  thee,  and  only  thee. 

Where  the  gently  murmuring  stream 

Lulls  to  soft  and  placid  dream, 

Who  for  ever  lingers  near  me  ? 

Who  but  thee,  love?  only  thee! 

And  if  fear,  or  dark  misgiving, 

Hover  round  with  evening's  gloom, 

Fancy's  tissues  darkly  weaving, 
Tracing  sorrows  yet  to  come; 

Still,  one  shadow  lingering  near, 

Even  scenes  like  these  are  dear. 

Who  the  angel  hovering  near  me  ? 

Who  but  thee,  love  ?  only  thee ! 

Thus  in  hope,  and  thus  in  sorrow, 

Fancy  paints  thy  shadow  near, 
Thou  the  brightener  of  each  morrow, 

Thou  the  soother  of  each  care. 
And  the  sun  which  gives  me  light, 
And  the  star  which  gilds  my  night, 
And  the  lingering  hope  to  cheer  me, 
5  T  is  but  thee,  love !  only  thee  f 


M.  C.  CANFIELD. 

MRS.  M.  C.  CANFIELD,  formerly  Miss  Hulme,  is  a  native  of  Burling 
ton,  New  Jersey,  but  now  resides  in  Ohio.  She  has  published  a  number 
of  useful  little  books  for  the  young;  and  has,  for  some  years  past,  con 
tributed  to  the  Episcopal  Recorder,  and  other  periodicals.  Her  poetical 
effusions,  which  are  written  with  ease  and  spirit,  and  marked  by  pure 
and  elevated  feeling,  have  been  mostly  of  a  local  or  personal  char 
acter,  and  have  appeared  anonymously,  or  under  the  signature  "  C." 

THE  ELECTOR  OF  SAXONY  AT  AUGSBURG.* 

THE  first  faint  light  of  early  day 

Rested  on  vale  and  hill, 
Touch'd  the  old  towers  and  turrets  gray, 

But  Augsburg  slumber'd  still. 
Its  silent  streets  gave  back  no  sound, 

Save  some  lone  passers  tread, 
Some  peasant  to  his  labour  bound, 

Some  watcher  o'er  the  dead. 
Courtier  and  prince  in  deep  repose 

Forgot  each  toil  and  care, 
Yet  from  one  quiet  chamber  rose 

The  voice  of  early  prayer. 
His  princely  robes  aside  were  thrown, 

His  sword  unsheathed  lay, 
Where  an  old  warrior  bent  him  down 

In  solitude  to  pray. 
The  long,  thin  locks  of  hoary  years 

Hung  round  his  noble  brow, 
While  from  his  aged  eyes  the  tears 
Fell  all  unheeded  now. 

*  D'Aubigne's  History  of  the  Reformation — Vol.  iv. 


424  M.     C.     CANFIELD. 

Not  for  his  threaten'd  state  and  crown 

Did  they  in  silence  flow, 
No  selfish  fear  that  spirit  bound 

Of  royal,  crafty  foe. 
>T  was  for  the  holy  ark  of  God 

He  wept  and  wrestled  there, 
Beseeching  that  his  gracious  Lord 

Would  guard  it  from  each  snare. 
The  rosy  light  fell  on  his  form, 

The  soft  breeze  stirr'd  his  hair, 
And  peace  from  heaven  was  gently  borne, 

In  answer  to  that  prayer. 
His  soul  grew  calm  with  faith  and  love, 

His  eye  with  fervour  bright  — 
The  strength  that  cometh  from  above 

Had  nerved  him  for  the  fight. 
He  sat  amid  that  little  band 

Of  noble  Christian  men, 
And  seized  with  eager  joyful  hand 

The  truth-confessing  pen. 
"Nay!  stop  me  not!"  he  quickly  cried, 

u  1  would  confess  my  Lord  ! 
Take,  take  from  me  these  marks  of  pride, 

My  ermine,  hat  and  sword. 
To  me  the  Cross  of  Christ  is  more 

Than  all  these  toys  of  kings  — 
They  pass  with  life  —  it  rises  o'er 

The  wreck  of  earthly  things. 
My  Master's  Cross !  I  '11  bear  it  high 

While  life  and  breath  remain, 
Christ,  Christ  alone!  I'll  dying  cry, 

When  other  hopes  are  vain ! 
Then  let  me  humbly  place  my  name 

Upon  this  speaking  scroll  — 
Ye  men  of  God,  be  mine  your  shame, 
Your  conflict,  and  your  goal!" 


AMANDA     M.     ED  MONO.  425 

Thou  brave  old  man !  where'er  thou  art, 

'Mid  courts  at  princely  board, 
How  beautiful !     How  true  in  heart ! 

Thou  servant  of  the  Lord  ! 
Thou  veteran  in  that  glorious  fight 

For  Christ,  for  heaven,  for  truth, 
Faith  gave  thine  aged  arm  the  might 

Of  strong,  undaunted  youth. 
First  in  that  band,  the  noble  few, 

Thou  stood'st  with  bearing  high, 
"  I  must  confess  my  Saviour  too !" 

Thy  watchword  and  thy  cry. 
No  wish  for  honour,  praise,  or  fame, 

Glow'd  in  thine  aged  breast, 
Yet  never  shone  more  honour'd  name 

On  proud,  imperial  crest. 
And  long  when  his  who  triumph'd  there 

Has  pass'd  from  mortal  sight, 
Thine  yet  shall  live  more  radiant  far, 

Engraved  with  heaven's  own  light! 


AMANDA  M.  EDMOND. 

MRS.  EDMOND  was  born  in  Brookline,  Massachusetts ;  her  maiden 
name  was  Corey.  She  was  married  at  nineteen,  and  soon  after  made 
a  tour  through  the  most  interesting  countries  of  Europe.  On  her  return 
she  published  a  volume,  entitled  The  Broken  Vow  and  other  Poems; 
nearly  all  of  which  were  written  between  the  ages  of  fourteen  and 
eighteen.  This  is  sufficient  to  deter  any  one  from  searching1  out  their 
faults,  or  making  a  show  of  them  when  found.  They  are  all  dictated 
by  a  truly  religious  spirit ;  and,  therefore,  claim  respect  for  the  author 
as  a  Christian,  whatever  may  be  thought  of  her  abilities  as  a  poet. 
36* 


426  AMANDA     M.     EDMOND. 

WHEN     IS     THE     TIME     TO     DIE? 

I  ASKED  a  glad  and  happy  child, 

Whose  hands  were  fill'd  with  flowers, 
Whose  silvery  laugh  rang  free  and  wild, 

Among  the  vine-wreathed  bowers. 
I  cross'd  her  sunny  path,  and  cried, 

'  When  is  the  time  to  die  ?' 
'Not  yet!   not  yet!'    the  child  replied, 

And  swiftly  bounded  by. 

I  ask'd  a  maiden,  back  she  flung 

The  tresses  of  her  hair; 
A  whisper'd  name  was  on  her  tongue, 

Whose  memory  hover'd  there. 
A  flush  pass'd  o'er  her  lily  brow, 

I  caught  her  spirit's  sigh ; 
'  Not  now,'  she  cried,  '  O  no,  not  now  ! 

Youth  is  no  time  to  die.' 

I  ask'd  a  mother,  as  she  prest 

Her  first-born  in  her  arms, 
As  gently  on  her  tender  breast 

She  hush'd  her  babe's  alarms. 
In  quivering  tones  her  answer  came, 

Her  eyes  were  dim  with  tears, 
'My  boy  his  mother's  life  must  claim, 

For  many,  many  years !' 

I  questioned  one  in  manhood's  prime, 

Of  proud  and  fearless  air, 
His  brow  was  furrow'd  not  by  time, 

Or  dimm'd  by  woe  and  care. 
In  angry  accents  he  replied, — 

And  gleam'd  with  scorn  his  eye, 
4  Talk  not  to  me  of  death,'  he  cried, 

4  For  only  age  should  die.' 


AMANDA     M.     EDMOND.  427 

I  question'd  Age;   for  him,  the  tomb 

Had  long  been  all  prepared, 
But  death,  who  withers  youth  and  bloom, 

This  man  of  years  had  spared. 
Once  more  his  nature's  dying  fire 

Flash'd  high,  as  thus  he  cried, 
4  Life,  only  life  is  my  desire !' 

Then  gasp'd,  and  groan'd,  and  died. 

I  ask'd  a  Christian  — 'answer  thou 

When  is  the  hour  of  death ;' 
A  holy  calm  was  on  his  brow, 

And  peaceful  was  his  breath; 
And  sweetly  o'er  his  features  stole 

A  smile,  a  light  divine; 
He  spake  the  language  of  his  soul, 

'  My  Masters  time  is  mine  /' 

THE     GREENWOOD     DEPTHS. 

O!    the  greenwood  depths  are  beautiful, 

When  the  tall  and  stately  trees, 
In  the  summer's  radiant  foliage  clad, 

Are  sway'd  by  the  passing  breeze. 

I  love  them  best  in  the  evening  hour, 

When  the  silver  moon  pours  down 
A  flood  of  light,  from  her  censer  bright, 

On  the  shadowy  forest's  crown. 

The  soft  breeze  moans  thro'  the  rustling  trees, 

And  the  silvery  brook  afar, 
With  a  glad,  clear  tune,  like  a  bird's  in  June, 

Leaps  on  where  the  rushes  are. 

The  cricket  chirps  in  the  old  stone  wall, 
Where  the  velvet  mosses  grow, 


L 


428  AMANDA     M.      EDMOND. 

And  the  earnest  voice  of  the  katydid 
Responds  from  the  turf  below. 

O !    tell  me  not  of  the  loneliness 
Of  the  wood,  nor  call  it  drear, 

For  a  thousand,  thousand  living  things 
To  gladden  its  depths  are  here. 

Some  pass  me  by  on  their  pinions  light, 
Through  the  trackless  realms  of  air, 

And  some  repose  on  the  bending  flower, 
Their  couch  in  its  blossoms  fair. 

Some  hide  in  the  twisted,  grass-grown  roots 

Of  the  lofty  oak  or  pine; 
And  some  in  the  bark  of  the  old  fir  trees, 

Which  the  ivy  tendrils  twine. 

And  the  answering  echoes  of  my  soul 

Go  forth  at  each  joyous  tone, 
Which  the  humblest,  tiniest  creature  pours 

In  a  language  all  its  own. 

O!   greenwood  depths!   ye  are  beautiful 

In  the  summer  evening  hour, 
And  this  wondering  soul  of  mine  ye  thrill 

With  a  strange  enchanting  power. 

Nay,  tell  me  not  of  the  crowded  halls, 

They  are  solitude  to  me ; 
And  the  sweetest  notes  of  the  harp  are  nought 

To  the  tones  of  nature  free. 


HARRIETTE  FANNING  READ. 

Miss  READ  was  born  at  Jamaica  Plains,  near  Boston.  Her  father, 
who  died  when  she  was  very  young,  was  a  bookseller  and  publisher, 
and  a  man  of  much  intelligence  and  refined  taste.  Her  mother's  father 
was  an  officer  in  the  British  army,  and  distinguished  himself  at  the  battle 
of  Camden  in  the  Revolutionary  war,  where  his  gallantry  turned  the 
tide  of  success  from  the  American  to  the  British  side,  for  which  he  re 
ceived  the  thanks  of  Lord  Rawdon  at  the  head  of  the  troops.  The 
family  were  of  Irish  extraction,  and  came  to  this  country  during  the 
disturbances  in  Ireland  under  Cromwell. 

Lady  Morgan,  in  her  notes  to  The  Wild  Irish  Girl,  says  that  the  last 
of  the  true  Irish  bards  of  those  who  were  poets  and  harpers  was  a  Fan 
ning.  A  predilection  for  war  and  song  has  run  through  the  race. 

Miss  Read's  parents  were  both  very  desirous  that  their  daughter 
should  be  a  literary  woman ;  and  nature  seemed  to  second  their  views. 
At  four  years  of  age  she  had  read  Guy  Mannering,  at  five  had  made 
good  progress  in  the  study  of  Latin,  and  at  eight  showed  a  decided  taste 
for  poetry.  On  her  mother's  removal  to  Boston,  she  was  placed  at 
school  under  the  charge  of  Mr.  E.  Bailey,  but  did  not  remain  there  long 
on  account  of  ill  health.  She  then  went  to  Washington  to  gain  strength, 
and  as  her  uncle,  Colonel  Fanning,  had  been  recently  married,  she  and 
her  mother  became  members  of  his  household.  They  then  lived  the 
life  of  soldiers,  changing  from  one  military  post  to  another,  until  the 
frequency  of  these  changes  made  them  anxious  for  a  more  permanent 
home,  and  they  again  went  to  Washington.  Here,  and  at  a  neighbour 
ing  village  in  Maryland,  they  resided  until  the  death  of  Colonel  Fan 
ning,  which  occurred  two  years  since.  They  now  live  in  New  York. 

In  October,  1847,  Miss  Read  published  a  volume  of  Dramatic  Poems  ; 
Medea,  Erminia,  and  The  New  World.  They  are  written  with  classic 
taste,  and  a  masculine  strength  of  expression.  In  February,  1848,  she 
made  her  debut  as  an  actress  at  the  Boston  theatre ;  since  which  she  has 
performed  an  engagement  at  Washington.  As  the  critics  in  both  cities 
have  pronounced  that  she  has  the  materiel  requisite  for  the  stage,  she 
has  determined  to  improve  and  develope  her  histrionic  talent. 

(4-29) 


430  HARRIETTE     FANNING     READ. 


MEDEA'S    LOVE. 
(FROM   MEDEA.) 

MEDEA. 

LOVE  is  my  life !  and  should  not  I  give  all 
The  treasures  which  the  gods  have  granted  me, 
To  feed  its  sacred  and  mysterious  flame  ? 

IANTHE. 

E'en  if  the  flame  should  mount,  with  tyrant  power, 
And,  'mid  her  rites,  consume  the  priestess  ? 

MEDEA. 

Ay, 

To  keep  the  flame  undying  I  would  yield 
My  life  rather  than  live  to  see  it  wane, 
Expire,  and  leave  my  heart  to  dark  despair! 
Gods,  e'er  I  know  the  agony  to  live 
Unloved  of  him  who  sways  my  every  thought, 
O,  snatch  my  life,  and  I  will  bless  the  stroke! 

IANTHE. 

Bid  I  not  know  thy  soul,  I  should  exclaim, 
A  wife  of  yesterday  might  dream  such  dreams ! 

MEDEA. 

A  wife  of  yesterday !  —  Hath  Love  with  Time 
Such  close  alliance,  that  old  age  to  both 
Comes  with  the  same  alloy  of  clouds,  and  cares, 
And  chill  indifference  to  mortal  joys  ? 
Ah,  no !     Time  is  but  for  the  form  we  wear ; 
Love  is  the  soul,  which  hath  no  bonds  with  Time. 
For  ever  young,  with  wing  untamed,  he  soars 
On  to  the  future,  sorrow,  care,  and  death 
Made  radiant  by  his  smile. 

IANTHE. 

Such  love  as  this 
E'en  Love  himself  knows  not! 


HARRIETTE    FANNING     READ.  431 

MEDEA. 

So  Jason  read  it  in  Medea's  heart, 
And  feel  it  in  his  own,  I  care  not,  though 
The  god  to  Lethe's  waves  consign  his  shafts, 
And  leave  the  world  to  friendship's  calmer  reign. 
(Enter  JASON.) 

JASON. 
What,  doth  Medea  ask  for  Friendship's  reign  ? 

MEDEA. 

Not  while  Love's  flame  survives  in  Jason's  breast. 

JASON. 

If  that  expire  ? 

MEDEA. 

Expire!     The  gods  forbid! 

JASON. 
Nay,  start  not  at  a  jest ! 

MEDEA. 

Will  my  lord  jest 

On  such  a  theme  ?     As  well  mightst  thou  lay  bare 
This  heart,  thine  altar,  tear  it  from  its  place, 
And  cast  it  quivering  from  thy  grasp  to  earth, 
As  jest  thus  of  a  tie  to  me  so  dear, 
So  sacred,  that  to  sever  it  would  be 
To  loose  each  human  feeling  from  my  breast, 
To  make  me  desperate,  outcast  from  my  kind, 
Hating  myself,  the  world,  and  thee ! 
JASON. 

Even  so!  \Jlside. 

Thou  paint'st  a  Fury's  not  a  woman's  love! 
But  let  not  fancy  torture  thee;  the  world 
Hath  real  ills  enough. 

MEDEA. 

But  not  for  me  ! 

I  dread, —  I  know  no  ill  when  thou  art  by. 
Exile  and  want,  disgrace,  the  hate  of  men, 


432  HARRIETTE     FANNING     READ. 

And  wrath  of  gods,  I  could  endure,  nor  waste 
A  care  on  them,  so  Jason  lived  and  loved  ! 

JASON. 

The  fiend  Remorse  is  busy  at  my  heart. 
Can  I  again  inspire  such  love,  or  lives 
A  woman,  save  Medea,  in  whose  soul 
A  passion  ardent,  pure,  as  this  can  burn  ?  [Aside.] 

MEDEA. 

My  lord,  why  on  this  day  is  thy  brow  sad  ? 

JASOX. 
Men  oft  have  cares  which  women  need  not  share. 

MEDEA. 

Hath  Jason  cares  Medea  cannot  share  ? 

Ah  !  strange  and  heavy  should  that  sorrow  be 

Which  clouds  thy  heart  from  mine. 

Why  speak'st  thou  not  ?     Since  first  our  fates  were  join'd. 

Ne'er  hast  thou  known  a  care  or  braved  a  toil 

Which  by  my  love  has  not  been  lighter  made, 

Or  vanquish'd  by  my  skill. 

JASON. 

Medea,  list! 

Not  grateful  is  it  to  a  warrior's  ear, 
That  even  a  wife  should  boast  her  benefits : 
Remembrance  is  his  part,  and  silence  hers. 

MEDEA. 

Thou  know'st  that  mine  is  not  the  ignoble  soul 
Which  prompts  a  boaster's  tongue.     I  boast  of  naught 
Save  of  thy  love,  which  made  me  what  I  am, 
Thy  equal  partner,  not  thy  household  slave,— 
As  Grecian  dames  to  Grecian  lords  must  be, — 
But  worthy  deem'd  by  thee  to  aid  thy  councils, 
To  share  thy  wanderings,  and  assuage  thy  woes. 
I  boast  my  husband   when  I  talk  of  these. 
Tell  me,  what  care  oppresses  thee  ? 


HARRIETTE     FANNING     READ.  433 

JASON. 

Not  long 
Wilt  thou  remain  in  ignorance. 

MEDEA. 

I  felt 

Thou  couldst  not  long  exclude  me  from  thy  heart. 
Why  does  the  darkness  deepen  on  thy  brow? 
Thou  'rt  ill !     Thou  canst  not  hide  it  from  thy  wife,  — 
From  her,  who,  taught  by  love,  reads  in  thy  glance 
Each  shade  of  joy  and  pain.     Surely  thou  'rt  ill! 

JASON. 

Not  ill,  Medea,  not  oppress'd  with  cares 
Beyond  my  own  poor  skill  to  overcome. 
Content  thee,  thou  mistak'st. 

MEDEA. 

I  am  content, 

If  for  Medea's  sake  thou  'It  clear  thy  brow, 
And  greet  this  day  with  smiles. 
JASON. 

And  why  this  day  ? 

MEDEA. 

Is  Jason's  heart  so  changed,  that  he  forgets 
The  day  which  once  he  hail'd  with  fondest  joy  ? 
If  thou  forgett'st,  ah!  why  should  I  remember 
That  on  this  day  I  fled  my  native  shores, — 
My  father's  court,  where  I  was  as  a  queen, — 
Left  all  for  Love,  and  in  his  smile  found  all? 


MEDEA'S    REVENGE. 

MEDEA. 

VENGEANCE  hath  had  her  perfect  rites!     Now,  now,. 
Welcome,  ye  hounds  of  Corinth  !  — -  for  I  hear 

Your  distant  voices  clamouring  for  the  prey, 

Welcome!     A  woman's  and  a  mother's  hand 
37  2c 


434  HARRIETTS     FANNING     READ. 

From  your  expectant  grasp  hath  snatch'd  the  victims! 

In  horrid  safety  lay  the  new-fledged  eaglets, 

Whose  eyes,  just  train'd  to  meet  the  sun's  fierce  glance, 

Relentless  fate  hath  sealed  in  death.     Death  !  — death !  — 

Unfathomable  mystery!  my  lips 

Speak  thy  familiar  name,  and  yet  my  soul 

Rebels  against  thy  power.     Within  my  hand, 

Fearless,  unfaltering,  I  hold  the  knife, 

Stern  witness  of  thy  doings,  —  near  me  lie, 

Insensible  to  hope  or  fear,  the  sons 

So  loved,  so  worshipped, —  but  my  heart  feels  not 

Thy  presence,  visible,  palpable,  though  it  be. 

For  in  the  mirror  of  fast-flowing  tears 

Imagination  paints  my  children's  forms; 

The  music  of  their  voices  fills  my  ear. 

Enchantment  of  as  strong,  as  blinding  power 

To  mortal  reason,  as  a  mother's  love, 

Nor  heaven  nor  hell  can  boast! 

And  yet  this  hand,  nerved  by  infernal  rage, 

Hath  stopped  the  gushing  stream  of  life  in  veins 

Fed  from  the  fountain  of  this  heart!     Ye  gods! 

Dare  I  to  talk  of  love  ?     The  very  fiends 

Mock  at  the  sound,  and,  as  the  shivering  earth 

Gapes  'neath  my  feet  accursed,  from  the  abyss 

Swarm  the  dire  brood  ;  above,  around,  they  press. 

They  bar  each  avenue  of  escape,  proclaim 

Me  homeless  and  deserted  of  my  kind, 

And  in  my  tortured  ear  their  serpent  tongues 

Hiss  forth  a  welcome  to  their  vengeful  band. 

Hence,  horrid  shapes  !     I  'm  human  still !     Hell  taunts, 

Earth  shakes,  mankind  rejects,  yet  here  I  sink 

Upon  the  bosoms  of  my  slaughter'd  babes, 

Here  dare  repose,  nor  powers  of  earth  or  hell 

Shall  fright  me  hence;  for  here,  at  least,  is  peace. 

Peace  to  the  young,  pure  hearts  which  ne'er  shall  throb 


i  


ANNA     CORA     MOWATT.  435 

Beneath  the  burden  of  Life's  guilt  and  woe, 

And  peace  to  me,  who  in  this  marble  stillness 

Behold  Heaven's  dearest  boon.     And  now  one  glance, 

One  last  embrace,  —  the  last  on  earth !     The  rose 

Hath  scarce  yet  faded  from  your  lips,  my  sons, 

The  smile  still  lingers  there,  as  life  were  loath 

To  part  from  shrines  so  fair.     Had  ye  awaked, 

As  with  despair's  fell  strength  your  wretched  mother 

Grasp'd  the  dire  steel,  could  I  have  done  this  deed  ? 

No,  by  the  gods !     The  heart  once  task'd  to  the  bounds 

Of  Nature's  great  endurance,  oft  a  word 

May  strike  with  sudden  force  the  quivering  chord, 

And  free  the  wearied  soul.     Devoted  babes, 

Had  sleep  released  you  from  its  bonds,  one  glance 

Had  been  Apollo's  messenger ;  my  heart 

Had  burst  beneath  its  power,  and  ye  had  lived, — 

To  glut  Corinthian  rage.     I  thank  the  gods 

It  is  not  so !     Upon  your  cheeks  the  icy  chill  of  death 

Thrills  through  my  veins ;  —  ' tis  well, —  I  should  be  stern; 

For  one  task  remains,  and  then  —  to  rest! 

The  step  I  watch  for  comes.     Vengeance,  instruct  me 

To  teach  his  heart  some  knowledge  of  the  pangs 

Which  rend  my  own! 


ANNA  CORA  MOWATT. 

MRS.  MOWATT  is  a  native  of  Bordeaux  in  France,  where  she  spent 
the  first  six  years  of  her  life.  Her  father  was  the  late  Samuel  Gover- 
neur  Ogden,  of  New  Jersey.  She  was  married  at  the  early  age  of 
fifteen  to  Mr.  Mowatt  of  New  York.  Two  years  after,  she  published 
anonymously  a  poetical  romance  in  five  cantos,  founded  on  the  his 
tory  of  the  first  king  of  Asturias.  A  satirical  poem,  displaying  much 
talent  and  force,  appeared  soon  after.  She  then  returned  to  her  native 
France,  and  spent  several  years  there  and  in  Germany.  During  her 


436  ANNA     CORA     MOWATT. 

stay  on  the  continent,  she  wrote  a  tragedy  called  Gulzara,  which  was 
published  in  New  York  in  1841.  In  the  winter  of  1845  her  best  work, 
Fashion,  a  Comedy,  was  acted  at  the  Park  Theatre,  New  York ;  and 
was  much  praised  at  the  time  for  the  simplicity  of  its  plot,  and  the 
spirited  sarcasm  which  seasoned  its  colloquy.  She  is  herself  an  actress 
of  no  ordinary  skill ;  and  distinguished  herself  some  years  ago  by  the 
"elocutionary  readings"  with  which  she  entertained  large  and  fashion 
able  audiences  in  New  York,  Boston,  and  other  cities. 


TI  ME. 

NAY  rail  not  at  Time,  though  a  tyrant  he  be, 

And  say  not  lie  cometh,  colossal  in  might, 

Our  Beauty  to  ravish,  put  pleasure  to  flight, 

And  pluck  away  friends,  e'en  as  leaves  from  the  tree; 

And  say  not  Love's  torch,  which  like  Vesta's  should  burn, 

The  cold  breath  of  Time  soon  to  ashes  will  turn. 

You  call  Time  a  robber?     Nay,  he  is  not  so, — 
While  Beauty's  fair  temple  he  rudely  despoils, 
The  mind  to  enrich  with  its  plunder  he  toils; 
And,  sow'd  in  his  furrows,  doth  wisdom  not  grow  ? 
The  magnet  'mid  stars  points  the  north  still  to  view  ; 
So  Time  'mong  our  friends  e'er  discloses  the  true. 

Tho'  cares  then  should  gather,  as  pleasures  flee  by, 
Tho'  Time,  from  thy  features,  the  charms  steal  away, 
He'll  dim  too  mine  eye,  lest  it  see  them  decay; 
And  sorrows  we've  shared,  will  knit  closer  love's  tie: 
Then  I'll  laugh  at  old  Time,  and  at  all  he  can  do, 
For  he  '11  rob  me  in  vain,  if  he  leave  me  but  you ! 

MY     LIFE. 

MY  life  is  a  fairy's  gay  dream, 

And  thou  art  the  genii,  whose  wand 

Tints  all  things  around  with  the  beam, 
The  bloom  of  Titana's  bright  land. 


ANNA     CORA     MO  WATT.  437 

A  wish  to  my  lips  never  sprung, 

A  hope  in  my  eyes  never  shone, 
But,  ere  it  was  breathed  by  my  tongue, 

To  grant  it  thy  footsteps  have  flown. 

Thy  joys,  they  have  ever  been  mine, 

Thy  sorrows,  too  often  thine  own, 
The  sun  that  on  me  still  would  shine, 

O'er  thee  threw  its  shadows  alone. 

Life's  garland  then  let  us  divide, 

Its  roses  I  'd  fain  see  thee  wear, 
For  one  —  but  I  know  thou  wilt  chide  — 

Ah !  leave  me  its  thorns,  love,  to  bear ! 


LOVE. 

THOU  conqueror's  conqueror,  mighty  Love!  to  thee 

Their  crowns,  their  laurels,  kings  and  heroes  yield ! 
Lo!  at  thy  shrine  great  Antony  bows  the  knee, 

Disdains  his  victor  wreath,  and  flies  the  field ! 
From  woman's  lips  Alcides  lists  thy  tone, 

And  grasps  the  inglorious  distaff  for  his  sword ! 
An  eastern  sceptre  at  thy  feet  is  thrown, 

A  nation's  worshipp'd  idol  owns  thee  Lord!* 
And  well  for  Noorjehan  his  throne  became, 
When  erst  she  ruled  his  empire  in  thy  name ! 

The  sorcerer,  Jarchas,  could  to  age  restore 

Youth's  faded  bloom,  or  childhood's  vanish'd  glee; 

Magician,  Love !  canst  thou  not  yet  do  more  ? 
Is  not  the  faithful  heart  kept  young  by  thee  ? 


*The  Emperor  Jehangheer  was  so  devotedly  attached  to  his  favourite 
Sultana,  Noorjehan,  that  at  her  solicitation  he  granted  her  absolute  power 
over  his  empire  for  a  day. 

37* 


438  LUCY     HOOPER. 

But  ne'er  that  traitor  bosom  form'd  to  stray, 

Those  perjured  lips  which  twice  thy  vows  have  breathed, 
Can  know  the  rapture  of  thy  magic  sway, 

Or  find  the  balsam  in  thy  garland  wreathed; 
Fancy,  or  Folly,  may  his  breast  have  moved, 
But  he  who  wanders,  never  truly  loved. 


LUCY  HOOPER. 

THIS  lovely  girl  was  born  in  Newburyport,  Massachusetts,  on  the 
4th  of  February,  1816.  Her  father,  Mr.  Joseph  Hooper,  was  a  highly 
respectable  merchant,  a  man  of  strong  mind,  considerable  cultivation, 
and  decided  piety.  From  this  excellent  parent  Lucy  received  her 
entire  education,  and  to  his  unremitting  watchfulness  and  affectionate 
counsels  she  fondly  attributed  all  the  merits  of  her  character.  She  was 
a  docile,  gentle  child,  full  of  quiet  love  and  reverence ;  her  health  was 
always  so  delicate  that  her  careful  friends  were  obliged  to  restrain  her 
desires  after  study  and  meditation,  which  were  so  lively  and  deep-rooted 
as  to  wear  upon  the  little  strength  her  fragile  frame  possessed.  She 
was  passionately  fond  of  flowers,  and  of  all  the  bountiful  gifts  of  nature, 
and  devoted  much  time  to  the  knowledge  of  botany  and  chemistry.  Her 
habits  of  orderly  systematic  application  were  admirable,  and  by  their 
means  her  mind  was  stored  with  valuable  information  of  various  kinds. 
Ancient  and  modern  history,  and  classic  English  literature,  were  dili 
gently  studied,  while  she  also  became  well  versed  in  the  Latin,  French, 
and  Spanish  languages. 

When  Miss  Hooper  was  fifteen,  her  family  removed  to  Brooklyn, 
L.  I.,  where  she  resided  until  her  death.  Soon  after  this  removal 
she  began  to  contribute  to  The  Long  Island  Star,  to  The  New  Yorker, 
and  other  periodicals,  under  the  simple  initials  L.  H.  In  1840,  a 
volume  of  her  prose  articles  was  published,  called  Scenes  from  Real 
Life ;  which,  with  the  Essay  on  Domestic  Happiness,  proved  her  to 


LUCY     HOOPER.  439 

be  a  writer  of  much  taste,  reflection,  and  good  judgment.  She  loved 
best,  however,  to  express  her  thoughts  and  feelings  in  verse ;  then  she 
wrote  freely,  without  effort,  and  with  that  feeling  of  relief  and  delight 
in  the  act,  which  is  natural  to  the  true  poet.  During  her  short  life, 
Miss  Hooper  suffered  much  from  bereavement;  her  father,  and  several 
other  near  relatives  closely  entwined  around  her  loving  heart,  preceded 
her  to  the  tomb.  These  afflictions,  and  the  hopeless  but  flattering 
malady  which  was  undermining  her  constitution,  subdued  and  saddened 
her  character,  and  shed  a  certain  tender  melancholy  over  all  her 
thoughts.  A  few  weeks  before  her  death,  she  prepared  a  work  for 
publication  called  The  Poetry  of  Flowers,  and  also  projected  a  volume 
of  prose  on  a  larger  scale,  but  in  the  same  style,  as  her  Scenes  from 
Real  Life.  But  the  summons  came  on  the  1st  of  August,  1841,  and 
ended  in  her  twenty-fourth  year  all  her  industrious  plans  for  future 
usefulness.  In  1842,  her  Poetical  Remains  were  collected  and  ar 
ranged,  and  published  with  an  interesting  Memoir  from  the  eloquent 
pen  of  Mr.  John  Keese.  Another  edition  of  her  writings,  both  in  prose 
and  poetry,  has  recently  appeared. 

But  we  must  hasten  to  give  a  few  specimens  of  her  poetic  genius, — 
marked  as  they  are  by  elevation  of  thought  and  refined  sweetness  of 
expression,  —  though  we  could  linger  long  over  the  memory  of  Lucy 
Hooper,  the  good,  the  gifted,  and  the  pure. 


"TIME,    FAITH,    ENERGY  ."* 

HIGH   words  and  hopeful!  —  fold  them  to  thy  heart, 
Time,  Faith  and  Energy,  are  gifts  sublime ; 
If  thy  lone  bark  the  threatening  waves  surround, 
Make  them  of  all  thy  silent  thoughts  a  part. 
When  thou  wouldst  cast  thy  pilgrim-staff  away, 
Breathe  to  thy  soul  their  high,  mysterious  sound, 
And  faint  not  in  the  noontide  of  thy  day, — 
Wait  thou  for  Time! 

Wait  thou  for  Time  —  the  slow-unfolding  flower 
Chides  man's  impatient  haste  with  long  delay ; 


*  Suggested  by  a  passage  in  Bulwer's  "  Night  and  Morning." 


440 


LUCY     HOOPER. 


The  harvest  ripening  in  the  autumnal  sun, — 
The  golden  fruit  of  suffering's  weighty  power 
Within  the  soul;  —  like  soft  bells'  silvery  chime 
Repeat  the  tones,  if  fame  may  not  be  won, 
Or  if  the  heart  where  thou  shouldst  find  a  shrine, 
Breathe  forth  no  blessing  on  thy  lonely  way. 

Wait  thou  for  Time  —  it  hath  a  sorcerer's  power 
To  dim  life's  mockeries  that    gaily  shine, 
To  lift  the  veil  of  seeming  from  the  real, 
Bring  to  thy  soul  a  rich  or  fearful  dower, 
Write  golden  tracery  on  the  sands  of  life, 
And  raise  the  drooping  heart  from  scenes  ideal, 
To  a  high  purpose  in  a  world  of  strife. 
Wait  thou  for  Time! 

Yea,  wait  for  Time,  but  to  thy  heart  take  Faith, 

Soft  beacon-light  upon  a  stormy  sea; 

A  mantle  for  the  pure  in  heart,  to  pass 

Through  a  dim   world,  untouch'd  by  living  death  ; 

A  cheerful  watcher  through  the  spirit's  night, 

Soothing  the  grief  from  which  she  may  not  flee;  — 

A  herald  of  glad  news  —  a  seraph  bright, 

Pointing  to  sheltering  havens  yet  to  be. 

Yea,  Faith  and  Time,  and  thou  that  through  the  hour 

Of  the  lone  niirht  hast  nerved  the  feeble  hand, 

Kindled  the  weary  heart  with  sudden  fire, 

Gifted  the  drooping  soul   with  living  power, 

Immortal  Energy!  shall  thou  not  be, 

While  the  old  tales  our  wayward  thoughts  inspire, 

Linked  with  each  vision  of  high  destiny, 

Till  on  the  fadeless  borders  of  that  land 

Where  all  is  known  we  find  our  certain  way, 
And  lose  ye,  'mid  its  pure  effulgent  light  ? 


LUCY     HOOPER.  441 

Kind  ministers,  who  cheer'd  us  in  our  gloom, 
Seraphs  who  lightened  griefs  with  guiding  ray, 
Whispering  through  tears  of  cloudless  glory  dawning, 
Say,  in  the  gardens  of  eternal  bloom 
Will  not  our  hearts,  when  breaks  the  cloudless  morning, 
Joy  that  ye  led  us  through  the  drooping  night  ? 


IT     IS     WELL. 

Written  after  being  shown  the  inscription  on  the  grave  of  a  child  in 
the  Brooklyn  church-yard,  bearing  only  the  date,  the  age,  and  these 
simple  words,  "  It  is  well."* 

'TWAS  a  low  grave  they  led  me  to,  o'ergrown 

With  violets  of  the  Spring,  and  starry  moss, 

And  all  the  sweet  wild  flow'rets  that  disclose 

Their  hues  and  fragrance  round  the  dreamless  couch, 

As  if  to  tell  how  quietly  the  head 

That  here  had  throbb'd  so  feverishly,  doth  rest. 

'T  was  a  low  grave,  and  the  soft  zephyrs  play'd 

Gently  around  it;  and  the  setting  sun 

Gleam'd  brightly  on  the  marble  at  its  head, 

Bearing  the  date  —  the  name  —  the  few  brief  years, 

Of  one  whose  blessed  lot  it  was  to  pass 

To  the  fair  Land  of  Promise,  ere  the  chill 

And  blight  of  this  dark  world  had  power  to  cast 

A  shade  on  life's  pure  blossom ;  while  the  dew 

Of  morning  was  upon  its  leaves,  and  all 

The  outward  world  was  beauty ;  ere  the  eye 

Had  ever  wept  in  secret,  or  the  heart 

Grown  heavy  with  a  sorrow  unconfess'd. 

Was  it  a  bitter  lot  ?     That  stainless  stone 

Answer'd  the  query;  but  one  line  it  bore  — 

One  brief  inscription,  thrilling  the  deep  heart 

Of  those  who,  leaning  o'er  that  narrow  mound, 

Mused  over  life's  vain  sorrow : 


442  LUCY     HOOPER. 

"It  is  well." 

Ay,  the  deep  words  had  meaning;  but  what  grief 
Had  taught  the  lone  survivors  thus  to  count 
The  sum  of  all,  and,  struggling  with  their  tears, 
Write  only  —  "It  is  well?"     Oh!  well  for  her 
To  rest  on  that  green  earth  —  to  lay  the  head 
Unwearied  on  its  bosom,  and  to  seek 
A  refuge  from  the  coldness  of  the  world, 
Ere  yet  its  shaft  had  pierced  her. 

"It  is  well." 

And,  oh !  for  us  who,  musing  o'er  that  grave, 
Sigh  for  the  rest  a  stranger's  breast  hath  found. 
Were  it  not  well,  in  the  heart's  hour  of  grief, 
When  Earth  is  dim,  and  all  her  shining  streams 
Discourse  no  more  in  music  to  our  ears  — 
When  shadows  rest  upon  her  brightest  flowers, 
And  the  continual  sorrow  of  the  soul 
Doth  darken  sun  and  moon,  to  dream  at  last 
Of  a  still  rest  beneath  the  lowly  stone  — 
A  calm,  unbroken  slumber,  where  the  eye 
Shall  weep  no  more  in  sadness,  and  the  pulse 
Forget  its  quick,  wild  throbbings  ? 

O'er  that  grave 

Such  were  my  musings,  till  a  deeper  truth 
Broke  on  my  mind,  as  the  blue  violet  shed 
Its  sweetness  round  me,  and  the  evening  winds 
Brought  fragrance  from  afar ;  and  then  1  pray'd, 
In  lowliness  of  heart,  that  I  might  bear 
In  faith  "  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day," 
And  never,  till  His  purpose  was  fulfill'd, 
And  every  errand  He  had  set  perform'd 
In  trusting  patience,  sigh  for  dreamless  rest, 
Nor  till  th'  impartial  pen  of  Truth  could  write 
Above  that  quiet  refuge  — "  It  is  well." 


LUC  Y     HOOPER 


THE     OLD     DAYS     WE     REMEMBER. 

THE  old  days  we  remember, 
How  softly  did  they  glide, 
While  all  untouch'd  by  worldly  care, 

We  wander'd  side  by  side. 
In  those  pleasant  days,  when  the  sun's  last  rays 

Just  lingered  on  the  hill, 

Or  the  moon's  pale  light  with  the  coming  night 
Shone  o'er  our  pathway  still. 

The  old  days  we  remember, — 

Oh!  there's  nothing  like  them  now, 
The  glow  has  faded  from  our  hearts, 

The  blossom  from  the  bough; 
In  the  chill  of  care,  'midst  worldly  air, 

Perchance  we  are  colder  .grown, 
For  stormy  weather,  since  we  roam'd  together, 
The  hearts  of  both  have  known. 

The  old  days  we  remember, — 

Oh!  clearer  shone  the  sun, 
And  every  star  look'd  brighter  far, 

Than  they  ever  since  have  done ! 
On  the  very  streams  there  linger'd  gleams 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, 
And  the  running  brook  a  music  took 
Our  souls  can  hear  no  more ! 

The  old  days  we  remember, — 

Oh!  could  we  but  go  back 
To  their  quiet  hours,  and  tread  once  more 

Their  bright  familiar  track, 

Could  we  picture  again,  what  we  pictured  then, 
Of  the  sunny  world  that  lay 


443 


I 

L. 


444  LUCY     HOOPER. 

From  the  green  hillside,  and  the  waters  wide, 
And  our  glad  hearts  far  away. 

The  old  days  we  remember, 

When  we  never  dream'd  of  guile, 
Nor  knew  that  the  heart  could  be  cold  below, 

While  the  lip  still  wore  its  smile! 
Oh !  we  may  not  forget,  for  those  hours  come  yet, 

They  visit  us  in  sleep, 

While  far  and  wide,  o'er  life's  changing  tide, 
Our  barks  asunder  keep. 

Still,  still  we  must  remember 

Life's  first  and  brightest  days, 
And  a  passing  tribute  render 

As  we  tread  the  busy  maze ; 
A  bitter  sigh  for  the  hours  gone  by, 

The  dreams  that  might  not  last, 
The  friends  deem'd  true  when  our  hopes  were  new, 
And  the  glorious  visions  past! 


GIVE     ME     ARMOUR     OF     PROOF. 

GIVE  me  armour  of  proof,  J  must  ride  to  the  plain  ; 
Give  me  armour  of  proof,  ere  the  trump  sound  again  : 
To  the  halls  of  my  childhood  no  more  am   I  known, 
And  the  nettle  must  rise  where  the  myrtle  hath  blown! 

Till  the  conflict  is  over,  the  battle  is  past 

Give  me  armour  of  proof —  I  am  true  to  the  last ! 

Give  me  armour  of  proof— bring  me  helmet  and  spear; 
Away!  shall  the  warrior's  cheek  own  a  tear? 
Bring  the  steel  of  Milan  —  't  is  the  firmest  and  best, 
And  bind  on  my  bosom  its  closely-link'd  vest, 
Where  the  head  of  a  loved  one  in  fondness  hath  lain, 
Whose  tears  fell  at  parting  like   warm  summer  rain! 


LUCY     HOOPER.  445 

Give  me  armour  of  proof —  I  have  torn  from  my  heart 
Each  soft  tie  and  true  that  forbade  me  to  part; 
Bring  the  sword  of  Damascus,  its  blade  cold  and  bright, 
That  bends  not  in  conflict,  but  gleams  in  the  fight; 
And  stay  — let  me  fasten  yon  scarf  on  my  breast, 
Love's  light  pledge  and  true— I  will  answer  the  rest! 

Give  me  armour  of  proof— shall  the  cry  be  in  vain, 
When  to  life's  sternest  conflicts  we  rush  forth  amain  ? 
The  knight  clad  in  armour  the  battle  may  bide; 
But  woe  to  the  heedless  when  bendeth  the  tried ; 
And  woe  to  youth's  morn,  when  we  rode  forth  alone, 
To  the  conflict  unguarded,  its  gladness  hath  flown! 

Give  us  armour  of  proof— our  hopes  were  all  high; 
But  they  pass'd  like  the  meteor  lights  from  the  sky ; 
Our  hearts'  trust  was  firm,  but  life's  waves  swept  away 
One  by  one  the  frail  ties  which  were  shelter  and  stay ; 
And  true  was  our  love,  but  its  bonds  broke  in  twain : 
Give  me  armour  of  proof,  ere  we  ride  forth  again. 

Give  me  armour  of  proof— we  would  turn  from  the  view 
Of  a  world  that  is  fading  to  one  that  is  true ; 
We  would  lift  up  each  thought  from  this  earth-shaded  light, 
To  the  regions  above,  where  there  stealeth  no  blight; 
And  with  Faith's  chosen  shield  by  no  dark  tempests  riven, 
We  would  gaze  from  earth's   storms   on   the  brightness  of 
heaven ! 


38 


EMILY  E.  JUDSON. 

EVERY  one  who  has  been  at  all  conversant  with  American  magazine 
literature,  during  the  last  four  or  five  years,  is  acquainted  with  the 
name  of  Fanny  Forester ;  and  every  one  who  loves  truth,  nature,  and 
simplicity,  hails  it  as  the  name  of  a  friend.  It  was  in  June,  1844,  that 
Miss  Emily  Chubbock  first  signed  herself  by  this  pleasant  nom  de  plume, 
under  an  article  written  for  the  New  Mirror,  then  recently  established 
by  Morris  and  Willis.  Before  this  her  talents  had  never  been  recog 
nised  by  the  literary  world  ;  though  she  had  quietly  employed  her  pen 
in  writing  many  little  works  of  a  religious  character,  and  had  also  at  an 
early  age  been  a  contributer  to  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine.  She  is  a 
native  of  central  New  York,  received  a  superior  education,  and  filled 
the  office  of  a  teacher  in  the  female  seminary  at  Utica  for  many  years. 
In  1847  she  was  married  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Judson,  and  accompanied  him 
on  his  return  to  India,  the  field  of  his  missionary  labours.  On  the  eve 
of  her  departure  from  her  native  land,  her  various  sketches,  essays,  and 
poems,  were  collected  and  published  in  a  volume,  under  the  title  of 
Aldcrbrook.  Her  vivid  and  glowing  pictures  of  natural  scenery,  her 
graphic  and  artless  manner  of  describing  country  life,  and  the  pure 
bright  spirit  of  love  and  joy  that  shines  upon  all  she  touches,  have  made 
her  prose  writings  universally  admired.  As  a  poetess  she  has  not  so 
much  talent,  though  occasionally,  as  in  the  following  lines,  she  displays 
great  beauty  and  tenderness.  They  were  written  at  Maulmain,  in 
January,  1848. 

MY      B  I  RD. 

ERE  last  year's  moon  had  left  the  sky, 

A  birdling  sought  my  Indian  nest, 
And  folded,  oh !  so  lovingly ! 

Her  tiny  wings  upon  my  breast. 

From  morn  till  evening's  purple  tinge, 

In  winsome  helplessness  she  lies; 
Two  rose-leaves,  with  a  silken  fringe, 

Shut  softly  on  her  starry  eyes. 

(446) 


EMILY     E.     JUDSON. 

There's  not  in  Ind  a  lovelier  bird; 

Broad  earth  owns  not  a  happier  nest; 
O  God,  thou  hast  a  fountain  stirr'd, 

Whose  waters  never  more  shall  rest. 

This  beautiful,  mysterious  thing, 
This  seeming  visitant  from  Heaven, 

This  bird  with  the  immortal  wing, 
To  me  —  to  me,  thy  hand  has  given. 

The  pulse  first  caught  its  tiny  stroke, 
The  blood  its  crimson  hue  from  mine;- 

This  life,  which  I  have  dared  invoke, 
Henceforth  is  parallel  with  thine. 

A  silent  awe  is  in  my  room  — 
I  tremble  with  delicious  fear; 

The  future,  with  its  light  and  gloom, 
Time  and  Eternity  are  here. 

Doubts  —  hopes,  in  eager  tumult  rise; 

Hear,  O  my  God !  one  earnest  prayer :  • 
Room  for  my  bird  in  Paradise, 

And  give  her  angel  plumage  there ! 


MY     MOTHER. 

GIVE  me  my  old  seat,  mother, 

With  my  head  upon  thy  knee; 
I  've  pass'd  through  many  a  changing  scene 

Since  thus  I  sat  by  thee. 
Oh!  let  me  look  into  thine  eyes  — 

Their  meek,  soft,  loving  light 
Falls,  like  a  gleam  of  holiness, 

Upon  my  heart  to-night. 


447 


448  EMILY     E.     JUDSON. 

I've  not  been  long  away,  mother; 

Few  suns  have  rose  and  set, 
Since  last  the  tear-drop  on  thy  cheek 

My  lips  in  kisses  met : 
'Tis  but  a  little  time,  I  know, 

But  very  long  it  seems, 
Though  every  night  I  came  to  thee, 

Dear  mother,  in  my  dreams. 

The  world  has  kindly  dealt,  mother, 

By  the  child  thou  lov'st  so  well; 
Thy  prayers  have  circled  round  her  path, 

And  'twas  their  holy  spell 
Which  made  that  path  so  dearly  bright, 

Which  strew'd  the  roses  there, 
Which  gave  the  light,  and  cast  the  balm, 

On  every  breath  of  air. 

I  bear  a  happy  heart,  mother, 

A  happier  never  beat ; 
And  even  now  new  buds  of  hope 

Are  bursting  at  my  feet 
Oh,  mother!  life  may  be  "a  dream," 

But,  if  such  dreams  are  given, 
While  at  the  portal  thus  we  stand, 

What  are  the  truths  of  Heaven! 

I  bear  a  happy  heart,  mother, 

Yet,  when  fond  eyes  I  see, 
And  hear  soft  tones,  and  winning  words, 

I  ever  think  of  thee. 
And  then,  the  tear  my  spirit  weeps 

Unbidden  fills  my  eye; 
And,  like  a  homeless  dove,  I  long 

Unto  thy  breast  to  fly. 

l 


ANNE  CHARLOTTE  LYNCH.          449 

Then,  I  am  very  sad,  mother, 

I'm  very  sad  and  lone; 
Oh!  there's  no  heart,  whose  inmost  fold 

Opes  to  me  like  thine  own ! 
Though  sunny  smiles  wreathe  blooming  lips, 

While  love-tones  meet  my  ear; 
My  mother,  one  fond  glance  of  thine 

Were  thousand  times  more  dear. 

Then,  with  a  closer  clasp,  mother, 

Now  hold  me  to  thy  heart; 
I'd  feel  it  beating  'gainst  my  own 

Once  more  before  we  part. 
And,  mother,  to  this  love-lit  spot, 

When   I  am  far  away, 
Come  oft — too  oft  thou  canst  not  come  — 

And  for  thy  darling  pray. 


ANNE  CHARLOTTE  LYNCH. 


Miss  LYNCH  was  born  in  Burlington,  Vermont.  Her  father  was  an 
Irish  patriot,  who,  at  an  early  age,  accompanied  the  noble  and  high- 
souled  Emmett  to  this  country  after  the  struggle  of  '98.  Her  mother 
was  a  daughter  of  Colonel  Grey,  a  brave  soldier  and  distinguished  offi 
cer  in  the  American  revolutionary  army.  With  such  blood  in  her  veins, 
she  lawfully  inherits  that  pure  fervent  patriotism,  that  genuine  love  for 
the  just  and  the  free,  and  that  indignant  scorn  for  oppression  and  tyranny, 
which  so  often  distinguish  her  poems.  There  is,  indeed,  about  them,  a 
strength,  a  bravery,  a  soldier-like  sincerity.  Hope,  faith,  energy,  en 
durance,  victory,  are  the  noble  lessons  they  nobly  teach.  Yet  they  are 
as  delicately  beautiful  as  they  are  vigorous,  and  possess  as  much  deep 
38*  2D 


450         ANNE  CHARLOTTE  LYNCH. 

and  unaffected  feeling,  as  moral  power.  "To  speak  nobly,  compre 
hends  to  feel  profoundly."  They  sink  into  the  heart,  softening  and 
purifying  it;  while  they  stir  up  the  mind,  awaking  it  to  see  with  a 
clearer  eye  the  shadows  and  substances  of  life,  the  real  value  of  its 
worthless  joys,  and  of  its  priceless  sorrows.  Miss  Lynch's  sonnets  are 
choice ;  showing  that  perfect  finish  of  form,  and  condensation  of  idea, 
which  is  never  attained  but  by  well-disciplined  minds  severe  upon  them 
selves.  They  are  all  precious  stones;  and  though  some,  of  course,  may 
be  of  higher  value  than  others,  still,  all  are  pure  gems  from  a  mine  of 
richest  thought.  Miss  Lynch  has  been  preparing  lately  a  volume  of 
poems  for  publication  ;  we  can  hope  nothing  better  for  it,  than  that  its 
reception  and  reputation  may  be  equal  to  its  excellence. 


WASTED     FOUNTAINS. 

And  their  nobles  have  sent  their  little  ones  to  the  waters;  they  came 
to  the  pits  and  found  no  water  ;  they  returned  with  their  vessels  empty. 
—  Jeremiah,  xiv.  3. 

WHEN  the  youthful  fever  of  the  soul 

Is  awaken'd  in  thee  first, 
And  thou  go'st  like  Judah's  children  forth 

To  slake  the  burning  thirst, 

And  when  dry  and  wasted  like  the  springs 

Sought  by  that  little  band, 
Before  thee,  in  life's  emptiness, 

Life's  broken  cisterns  stand; 

When  the  golden  fruits  that  tempted  thee 

Turn  to  ashes  on  the  taste, 
And  thine  early  visions  fade  and  pass, 

Like  the  mirage  of  the  waste; 

When  faith  darkens,  and  hopes  vanish 

In  the  shade  of  coming  years, 
And  the  urn  thou  bear'st  is  empty, 

Or  overflowing  with  thy  tears; 


ANNE     CHARLOTTE     LYNCH.  451 

Though  the  transient  springs  have  faiPd  thee, 
Though  the  founts  of  youth  are  dried, 

Wilt  thou  among  the  mouldering  stones 
In  weariness  abide  ? 

Wilt  thou  sit  among  the  ruins, 

With  all  words  of  love  unspoken, 
Till  the  silver  cord  is  loosen'd, 

Till  the  golden  bowl  is  broken  ? 

Up  and  onward!  toward  the  East 

Green  oases  thou  shalt  find, — 
Streams  that  rise  from  higher  sources 

Than  the  pools  thou  leav'st  behind. 

Life  has  import  more  inspiring 

Than  the  fancies  of  thy  youth; 
It  has  hopes  as  high  as  Heaven, 

It  has  labour,  it  has  truth, 

It  has  wrongs  that  may  be  righted, 

Noble  deeds  that  may  be  done; 
Its  great  battles  are  unfought, 

Its  great  triumphs  are  unwon. 

There  is  rising  from  its  troubled  deeps 

A  low,  unceasing  moan; 
There  are  aching,  there  are  breaking, 

Other  hearts  besides  thine  own. 

From  strong  limbs  that  should  be  chainless, 

There  are  fetters  to  unbind; 
There  are  words  to  raise  the  fallen, 

There  is  light  to  give  the  blind. 

There  are  crush'd  and  broken  spirits, 

That  electric  thoughts  may  thrill ; 
Lofty  dreams  to  be  embodied 

By  the  might  of  one  strong  will. 


452  ANNE     CHARLOTTE     LYNCH. 

There  are  God  and  Heaven  above  thee, 
Wilt  thou  languish  in  despair? 

Tread  thy  griefs  beneath  thy  feet, 
Scale  the  walls  of  Heaven  by  prayer. 

'T  is  the  key  of  the  Apostle 
That  will  open  Heaven  below; 

'Tis  the  ladder  of  the  Patriarch, 
Whereon  angels  come  and  go. 


SONNE  T. 

THE  honey-bee,  that  wanders  all  day  long 
The  h'eld,  the  woodland,  and  the  garden  o'er, 
To  gather  in  his  fragrant  winter  store, 
Humming  in  calm  content  his  quiet  song, 
Seeks  not  alone  the  rose's  glowing1  breast, 
The  lily's  dainty  cup,  the  violet's  lips, 
But  from  all  rank  and  noisome  weeds  he  sips 
The  single  drop  of  sweetness  ever  prest 
Within  the  poison  chalice.     Thus  if  we 
Seek  only  to  draw  forth  the  hidden  sweet 
In  all  the  varied  human  flowers  we  meet 
In  the  wide  garden  of  humanity, 
And,  like  the  bee,  if  home  the  spoil  we  bear, 
Hived  in  our  hearts  it  turns  to  nectar  there. 


s  ONN  E  T. 

(ON    SEEING    THE    IVORY    STATUE    OF    CHRIST.) 

THE  enthusiast  brooding  in  his  cell  apart 

O'er  the  sad  image  of  the  Crucified, 

The  drooping  head,  closed  lips,  and  pierced  side, 
A  holy  vision  fills  his  raptured  heart; 


ANNE     CHARLOTTE     LYNCH.  453 

With  heavenly  power  inspired,  his  unskill'd  arm 
Shapes  the  rude  hlock  to  this  transcendant  form. 

Oh !    Son  of  God  !    thus,  ever  thus,  would  I 
Dwell   on  the  loveliness  enshrined  in  thee; 
The  lofty  faith,  the  sweet  humility, 

The  boundless  love,  the  love  that  could  not  die. 
And  as  the  sculptor,  with  thy  glory  warm, 
Gives  to  this  chisell'd  ivory  thy  fair  form, 

So  would  my  spirit  in  thy  thought  divine 

Grow  to  a  semblance,  fair  as  this,  of  Thine. 


SONNET. 

Go  forth  in  life,  oh  friend,  not  seeking  love;  — 
A  mendicant  that  with  imploring  eye 
And  outstretch'd  hand  asks  of  the  passers-by 

The  alms  his  strong  necessities  may  move  : 

For  such  poor  love,  to  pity  near  allied, 

Thy  generous  spirit  may  not  stoop  and  wait  — 

A  suppliant  whose  prayer  may  be  denied 
Like  a  spurn'd  beggar's  at  a  palace  gate  — 

But  thy  heart's  affluence  lavish,  uncontroll'd, 
The  largess  of  thy  love,  give  full  and  free, 

As  monarchs  in  their  progress  scatter  gold; 
And  be  thy  heart  like  the  exhaustless  sea, 

That  must  its  wealth  of  cloud  and  dew  bestow, 

Though  tributary  streams  or  ebb  or  flow. 


SONNET. 

NIGHT  closes  round  me,  and  wild  threatening  forms 
Clasp  me  with  icy  arms  and  chain  me  down, 
And  bind  upon  my  brow  a  cypress  crown 

Dewy  with  tears,  and  heaven  frowns  dark  with  storms. 

But  the  one  glorious  memory  of  thee 


454  ANNE     CHARLOTTE     LYNCH. 

Rises  upon  my  path  to  light  and  bless, 
The  bright  Shekinah  of  the  wilderness, 
The  polar  star  upon  a  trackless  sea, 
The  beaming  Pharos  of  the  unreach'd  shore ;  — 
It  spans  the  clouds  that  gather  o'er  my  way, 
The  rainbow  of  my  life's  tempestuous  day. 
Oh,  blessed  thought!   stay  with  me  evermore, 
And  shed  thy  lustrous  beams  where  midnight  glooms, 
As  fragrant  lamps  burn'd  in  the  ancient  tornbs. 

SONNET. 

As  some  dark  stream  within  a  cavern's  breast 
Flows  murmuring,  moaning  for  the  distant  sun, 

So,  ere  I  met  thee,  murmuring  its  unrest, 
Did  my  life's  current  coldly,  darkly  run. 

And  as  that  stream  beneath  the  sun's  full  gaze 
Its  separate  course  and  life  no  more  maintains, 
But  now  absorb'd,  transfused,  far  o'er  the  plains 

It  floats,  etherialized  in  those  warm    rays  — 

So,  in  the  sunlight  of  thy  fervid  love, 

My  heart  so  long  to  earth's  dark  channels  given, 

Now  soars,  all  doubt,  all  pain,  all  ill  above, 
And  breathes  the  aether  of  the  upper  heaven; 

So  thy  high  spirit  holds  and  governs  mine, 

So  is  my  life,  my  being  lost  in  thine. 

SONNET. 

THE  mountain  lake,  o'ershadow'd  by  the  hills, 
May  still  gaze  heavenward  on  the  evening  star, 

Whose  distant  light  its  dark  recesses  fills, 

Though  boundless  distance  must  divide  them  far. 

Still  may  the  lake  the  star's  bright  image  wear; 
Still  may  the  star,  from  its  blue  ether  dome, 
Shower  down  its  silver  beams  across  the  gloom 


ANNE     CHARLOTTE     LYNCH.  455 

And  light  the  wave  that  wanders  darkly  there. 
Oh,  my  life's  star!    thus  do  I  turn  to  thee, 

Amid  the  shadows  that  above  me  roll, 
Thus  from  my  distant  sphere  thou  shin'st  on  me, 

Thus  does  thine  image  float  upon  my  soul, 
Through  the  wide  space  that  must  our  lives  dissever, 
Far  as  the  lake  and  star,  ah !    me,  for  ever ! 

DAY-DAWN     IN     ITALY. 

ITALIA  !  in  thy  Weeding  heart 

I  thought  e'er  hope  was  dead, 
That  from  thy  scarr'd  and  prostrate  form 

The  spark  of  life  had  fled. 

I  thought  as  memory's  sunset  glow 

Its  radiance  o'er  thee  cast, 
That  all  thy  glory  and  thy  fame 

Were  buried  in  the  past. 

Twice  mistress  of  the  world !  I  thought 

Thy  star  had  set  in  gloom, 
That  all  thy  shrines  and  monuments 

Were  but  thy  spirit  tomb  ; 

The  mausoleum  of  the  world 

Where  Art  her  spoils  might  keep; 
Where  pilgrims  from  all  shrines  might  come. 

To  wander  and  to  weep. 

The  thunders  of  the  Vatican 

Had  long  since  died  away, 
Saint  Peter's  chair  seem'd  tottering, 

And  crumbling  to  decay. 

Thy  ancient  line  of  Pontiff  kings 

Were  to  the  past  allied; 
And  oft  in  Freedom's  holy  ward 

They  fought  not  on  her  side. 


456  ANNE     CHARLOTTE     LYNCH. 

The  sacred  honour  of  the  Cross 
Was  trailing,  soiPd,  and  torn; 

And  often  had  the  hostile  ranks 
That  blessed  ensign  borne. 

But  from  her  death-like  slumber  now, 
The  seven-hilled  city  wakes; 

Italia!  on  thy  shrouded  sky 
A  gleam  of  morning  breaks. 

Along  the  Alps  and  Appenines 

Runs  an  electric  thrill ; 
A  golden  splendour  lights  once  more 

The  Capitolian  hill. 

And  hopes  bright  as  thy  sunny  skies 

Are  o'er  thy  future  cast; 
The  future  that  upon  thee  beams 

As  glorious  as  thy  past. 

The  laurels  that  thy  Caesars  wore 
Were  dyed  with  crimson  stains; 

Their  triumphs  glitter'd  with  the  spoil, 
Won  on  the  battle  plains. 

But  for  thy  Pontiff  Prince  to-day 
A  laurel  mightst  thou  twine, 

Unsullied  as  the  spotless  life 
He  lays  upon  thy  shrine. 

For  him  might  the  triumphal  car 

Ascend  the  hill  again ; 
No  slaves  bound  to  the  chariot  wheels 

Should  swell  the  lengthen'd  train. 

Such  trains  as  in  her  proudest  days 
Was  never  seen  in  Rome  — 

Of  captives  from  the  dungeon  freed  — 
Of  exiles  welcomed  home. 


ANNE  CHARLOTTE  LYNCH.          457 

When  gazing  on  the  doubtful  strife, 

The  Hebrew  leader  pray'd  ; 
The  friends  of  Israel  gather'd  round, 

His  drooping  hands  they  stay'd. 

And  thus  around  the  Patriarch's  chair 

The  friends  of  Freedom  stand  — 
All  eager,  though  it  falters  not, 

To  stay  his  lifted  hand. 

And  in  a  clearer,  firmer  tone, 

I  heard  their  rallying  cry; 
From  Etna  to  the  Alps  it  sounds, 

k'For  God  and  Liberty!" 


BOOKS     FOR     THE     PEOPLE. 

"Let  there  be  light." 

LIGHT  to  the  darken'd  mind 

Bear  like  the  sun  the  world's  wide  circle  round, 
Bright  messengers  that  speak  without  a  sound ! 

Sight  on  the  spirit-blind 
Shall  fall  wherever  ye  pass ;  your  living  ray 
Shall  change  the  night  of  ages  into  day  ; 

God  speed  ye  on  your  way! 

In  closet  and  in  hall, 

Too  long  alone  your  message  hath  been  spoken; 
The  spell  of  gold  that  bound  ye  there  is  broken, 

Go  forth  and  shine  on  all! 
The  world's  inheritance,  the  legacy 
Bequeathed  by  Genius  to  the  race  are  ye; 

Be  like  the  sunlight,  free ! 

A  mighty  power  ye  wield  ! 
Ye  wake  grim  centuries  from  their  repose, 
39 


458  ANNE     CHARLOTTE     LYNCH. 

And  bid  their  hoarded  treasuries  unclose, 

The  spoils  of  time  to  yield. 
Ye  hold  the  gift  of  immortality; 
Bard,  sage,  and  seer,  whose  fame  shall  never  die, 

Live  through  your  ministry. 

Noiseless  upon  your  path, 

Freighted  with  love,  romance,  and  song,  ye  speed ; 
Moving  the  world  in  custom  and  in  creed, 

Waking  its  love  or  wrath. 
Tyrants,  that  blench  not  on  the  battle-plain, 
Quail  at  your  silent  coming,  and  in  vain 

Would  bind  the  riven  chain. 

Shrines  that  embalm  great  souls 
Where  yet  the  illustrious  dead  high  converse  hold, 
As  gods  spake  through  their  oracles  of  old ! 

Upon  your  mystic  scrolls 
There  lives  a  spell  to  guide  our  destiny; 
The  fire  by  night,  the  pillar'd  cloud  by  day, 

Upon  our  upward  way. 


LINES. 

(ON    READING   SOME    VERSES    ENTITLED    "A    FAREWELL   TO   LOVE.") 

OH  !  stern  indeed  must  be  that  minstrel's  heart, 
In  the  world's  dusty  highway  doom'd  to  move, 

Who  with  life's  sunshine  and  its  flowers  can  part, 
Who  strikes  his  harp  and  sings  Farewell  to  Love. 

To  Love !  that  beam  which  covers  all  our  light, 
As  the  red  rays  illume  the  light  of  day, 

Whose  rose-hue,  once  extinguish'd  from  the  sight, 
Leaves  the  life-landscape  of  a  dull,  cold  gray. 


ANNE     CHARLOTTE    LYNCH.  459 

To  Love!  the  ethereal,  the  Promethean  spirit, 
That  bids  this  dust  with  life  divine  be  moved; 

The  only  memory  that  we  still  inherit 
Of  the  lost  Eden  where  our  parents  roved. 

Oh!  hopeless  bard!  recall  that  farewell  strain, 
Nor  from  thy  breast  let  this  fond  faith  depart; 

Recall  that  utterance  of  thy  cold  disdain, 

Thy  doubt  of  Love,  the  atheism  of  the  heart. 


ODE. 

(ADAPTED   TO   THE  MUSIC   OF   THE  MARSEILLAISE  HYMN.) 

A  NATION'S  birthday  breaks  in  glory! 

Songs  from  her  hills  and  valleys  rise, 
And  myriad  hearts  thrill  to  the  story 

Of  freedom's  wars  and  victories ; 
When  God's  right  arm  alone  was  o'er  her, 
And  in  her  name  the  patriot  band 
With  sacred  blood  baptized  their  land, 
And  England's  lion  crouch'd  before  her! 
Sons  of  the  Emerald  Isle! 

She  bids  you  rend  your  chain, 
And  tell  the  haughty  ocean-queen, 
Ye,  too,  are  free-born  men! 

Long  has  the  world  look'd  on  in  sorrow, 
As  Erin's  sun-burst*  set  in  night; 

Joy,  joy  !  there  breaks  a  brighter  morrow, 
Behold  a  beam  of  morning  light! 

A  ray  of  hope  her  night  redeeming; 
And  she  greets  it,  though  there  lower 
England's  scaffolds,  England's  Tower, 

And  though  hireling  swords  are  gleaming. 


*  The  ancient  flag  of  Ireland. 


I 

L 


460          ANNE  CHARLOTTE  LYNCH. 

Wild  shouts  on  every  breeze 
Come  swelling  o'er  the  sea, — 

Hark !  't  is  her  starving  millions  cry, 
"Give  Ireland  liberty!" 


THE     WOUNDED     VULTURE. 

This  incident  is  beautifully  related  in  Miss  Bremer's  Diary. 

A  KINGLY  vulture  sat  alone, 

Lord  of  the  ruin  round, 
Where  Egypt's  ancient  monuments 

Upon  the  desert  frown'd. 

A  hunter's  eager  eye  had  mark'd 

The  form  of  that  proud  bird, 
And  through  the  voiceless  solitude 

His  ringing  shot  was  heard. 

It  rent  that  vulture's  plumed  breast, 

Aim'd  with  unerring  hand, 
And  his  life-blood  gushed  warm  and  red 

Upon  the  yellow  sand. 

No  struggle  mark'd  the  deadly  wound, 

He  gave  no  piercing  cry, 
But  calmly  spread  his  giant-wings, 

And  sought  the  upper  sky. 

In  vain  with  swift  pursuing  shot 

The  hunter  seeks  his  prey, 
Circling  and  circling  upward  still, 

On  his  majestic  way. 

Up  to  the  blue  empyrean 

He  wings  his  steady  flight, 
Till  his  receding  form  is  lost 

In  the  full  flood  of  light. 


SARAH     C.     EDGARTON     MAYO.  461 

Oh!  wounded  heart!  oh.  suffering  soul! 

Sit  not  with  folded  wing, 
Where  broken  dreams  and  ruin'd  hopes 

Their  mournful  shadows  fling. 

Outspread  thy  pinions  like  that  bird, 

Take  thou  the  path  sublime, 
Beyond  the  flying  shafts  of  Fate, 

Beyond  the  wounds  of  Time. 

Mount  upward!  brave  the  clouds  and  storms; 

Above  life's  desert  plain 
There  is  a  calmer,  purer  air, 

A  heaven  thou  too  mayst  gain. 

And  as  that  dim  ascending  form 

Was  lost  in  day's  broad  light, 
So  shall  thy  earthly  sorrows  fade, 

Lost  in  the  Infinite. 


SAEAH  C.  EDGARTON  MAYO. 

MRS.  MAYO,  better  known  as  Miss  Edgarton,  was  born  in  Shirley, 
Massachusetts,  in  the  year  1819.  Her  first  appearance  as  a  writer  was 
in  1837,  when  she  contributed  to  various  religious  journals,  and  soon 
after  became  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Ladies'  Repository,  a  monthly 
magazine  published  in  Boston.  She  has  also  been  the  skilful  and  in 
dustrious  editor  of  a  religious  annual,  called  The  Rose  of  Sharon,  ever 
since  its  first  establishment,  a  period  of  nine  years.  Her  stories  for 
children  are  numerous  and  useful ;  among  them  are  Ellen  Clifford,  and 
The  Palfreys.  She  has  also  displayed  much  taste  in  compiling  a  few 
miniature  volumes  of  a  poetic  character,  the  titles  of  which  are,  The 
Flower  Vase,  The  Floral  Fortune  Teller,  and  The  Poetry  of  Woman 
39* 


462        SARAH  C.  EDGARTON  MAYO. 

In  1846,  she  became  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  A.  D.  Mayo,  a  minister  of 
the  Universalist  persuasion,  in  Gloucester,  Massachusetts,  where  she 
resided  until  her  death,  which  took  place  after  a  brief  illness,  on  the  9th 
of  July,  1848.  It  is  said  that  "  her  character  was  a  model  of  Christian 
excellence ;"  and  her  poems  are  marked  by  an  elevation  of  thought,  a 
directness  of  expression,  and  a  purity  and  tenderness  of  feeling,  which 
are  altogether  in  harmony  with  such  an  encomium. 


BE     FIRM. 

BE  firm !  whatever  tempts  thy  soul 
To  loiter  ere  it  reach  its  goal, 
Whatever  syren  voice  would  draw 
Thy  heart  from  duty  and  its  law, 
Oh  that  distrust!     Go  bravely  on, 
And,  till  the  victor-crown  be  won, 
Be  firm! 

Firm  when  thy  conscience  is  assailed, 
Firm  when  the  star  of  hope  is  veiled, 
Firm  in  defying  wrong  and  sin, 
Firm  in  life's  conflict,  toil  and  din, 
Firm  in  the  path  by  martyrs  trod, — 
And  oh,  in  love  to  man  and  God 
Be  firm! 

THOU     ART     FORMED     TO     GUIDE. 

AY,  truly,  dearest,  thou  art  form'd  to  guide; 
To  guide,  to  shelter,  to  uphold  and  bless, 
And  I  can  v/alk  with  brave  heart  at  thy  side, 
Safe  in  thy  spirit's  strength  and  tenderness. 

Thine  eye,  so  clear,  the  dim  way  can  discern, 
No  track  in  life  looks  doubtful  unto  thee, 
Oh,  let  me  take  thy  hand,  and  meekly  learn 
The  way  of  duty,  sometimes  dark  to  me. 


SARAH     C.     EDGARTON     MAYO.  463 

Thy  mind  is  like  a  torch  that  through  the  gloom 
Sheds  a  clear  brightness  where  our  feet  should  tread ; 
O  blessed  lot,  from  altar  to  the  tomb, 
By  hand  and  heart  so  steadfast  to  be  led! 


AMBITION. 

Lo!  on  the  mountain's  brow 
One  point  of  gleaming  light! 
And  thither  climbest  thou, 
With  eye  and  spirit  bright. 
Ay,  thou  at  least  shalt  stand 
In  all  that  golden  glow, 
A  sceptre  shining  in  thy  hand 
To  rule  the  world  below. 

Oh  use  that  sceptre  well! 

Not  as  a  spear  to  smite, 

But  like  a  wand  of  mighty  spell 

To  serve  the  cause  of  Right ! 

If  thou  win  power,  do  good  ! 

If  Fame,  deserve  thy  meed ! 

If  Wealth,  oh,  pour  it  like  a  flood 

O'er  all  this  world  of  need  ! 


THE     ANSWERED     PRAYER. 

I  PRAYED  for  Beauty  —  for  the  magic  spell 

That  binds  the  wisest  with  its  potent  thrall; 
That  I  within  fond  human  hearts  might  dwell, 

And  shine  the  fairest  in  the  festal  hall. 
I  would  have  seen  the  lordliest  bend  the  knee, 

The  loveliest  bow,  o'er-dazzled  by  my  charms ; 
While  he  I  long  had  vainly  loved  —  ah,  HE, 

Subdued,  should  clasp  me  fondly  in  his  arms! 


464  SARAH     C.     EDGARTONMAYO. 

But  Beauty  o'er  my  spirit  waved  her  wing, 

Yet  shed  no  brightness  on  my  form  or  face ; 
And  passing  years  but  darker  shadows  fling 

Upon  the  cheek  where  care  hath  left  its  trace. 
My  prayer,  if  heard  in  heaven,  hath  been  denied ; 

No  heart  bows  humbly  'neath  my  beauty's  sway; 
And  he  I  loved  now  seeks  a  fairer  bride, 

With  brighter  blushes  and  a  smile  more  gay. 

I  pray'd  for  Riches.     Oh!  for  lavish  wealth, 

To  pour  in  golden  showers  on  those  I  loved  — 
I  would  have  gladly  spent  my  youth  and  health, 

Could  I,  by  gifts  like  these,  my  love  have  proved. 
I  pray'd  for  Riches,  that  before  God's  shrine 

I  might  with  gifts  and  costly  tributes  kneel ; 
And  thought  the  treasures  of  Golconda's  mine 

Too  poor  to  show  the  fervour  of  my  zeal. 

Alas!  wealth  came  not  —  and  the  liberal  deeds 

My  heart  devised,  my  hand  must  fail  to  do; 
And  though  o'er  prostrate  truth  my  spirit  bleeds, 

In  vain  the  aid  of  magic  gold  I  woo. 
The  poor  may  plead  to  me  for  daily  food, 

And  those  I  love  in  lowly  want  may  pine; 
1  will  pour  out  for  them  my  heart's  warm  blood, — 

But  other  gifts  than  this  can  ne'er  be  mine. 

I  pray'd  for  Genius  —  for  the  power  to  move 

Hard  hearts,  and  reckless  minds,  and  stubborn  wills ; 
To  execute  the  holy  deeds  of  love, 

And  light  Truth's  fires  upon  a  thousand  hills. 
I  pray'd  for  Eloquence  to  plead  the  cause 

Of  human  rights  and  God's  eternal  grace; 
To  cry  aloud  o^er  Mercy's  outraged  laws, 

And  speed  the  great  redemption  of  my  race. 


SARAH     C.     EDGARTON     MAYO.  465 

But  all  in  vain.     My  feeble  tongue  can  breathe 

No  portion  of  the  fire  that  burns  within ; 
Jn  vain  my  fancy  vivid  thoughts  may  wreathe 

In  scorching  flames  to  vanquish  human  sin. 
Powerless  my  words  upon  the  air  float  by, 

And  wrong  and  crime  disdain  the  weak  crusade; 
While  vice  gleams  on  me  its  exultant  eye, 

And  bids  me  show  the  conquests  I  have  made. 

I  pray'd  for  Peace  —  for  strength  to  bear 

The  keen  privations  of  my  humble  fate; 
For  patient  faith  to  struggle  with  despair, 

And  shed  a  brightness  o'er  my  low  estate. 
I  pray'd  to  be  content  with  humble  deeds, 

With  "  widows'  mites"  and  scanty  charities ; 
To  follow  meekly  where  my  duty  leads, 

Though  through  the  lowliest  vale  of  life  it  lies. 

This  prayer  was  answer'd ;  for  a  peace  divine 

Spread  through  the  inmost  depths  of  all  my  heart; 
I  felt  that  that  same  blessed  lot  was  mine 

Which  fell  on  her  who  chose  the  better  part. 
What  though  the  world  abroad  ne'er  hears  my  name  ? 

What  though  no  chains  upon  weak  hearts  I  bind  ? 
It  is  a  happier  lot  than  wealth  or  fame, 

To  do  my  duty  with  a  willing  mind! 


MARY  E.  LEE. 

Miss  LEE  is  one  of  the  most  graceful  writers  of  fugitive  poetry  we 
have,  and  a  constant  and  most  acceptable  contributor,  both  of  prose  and 
verse,  to  the  best  of  our  magazines  in  the  north  and  south.  She  pos 
sesses  a  clear  and  pleasing  style,  a  refined  and  correct  taste,  a  well- 
cultivated  mind,  and  a  heart  full  of  pure  affection  and  warm  reverence 
for  the  beautiful  and  good.  She  is  a  native  of  Charleston,  South  Caro 
lina,  where  she  resides. 


THE     POETS. 

THE  poets  !   the   poets  ! 

Those  giants  of  the  earth ; 
In  mighty  strength  they  tower  above 

The  men  of  common  birth ; 
A  noble  race  —  they  mingle  not 

Among  the  motley  throng, 
But  move,  with  slow  and  measured  step, 

To  music-notes  along! 

The  poets!   the  poets! 

What  conquests  they  can  boast! 
Without  one  drop  of  life-blood  spilt, 

They  rule  a  world's  wide  host; 
Their  stainless  banner  floats  unharmM 

From  age  to  lengthened  age; 
And  History  records  their  deeds 

Upon  her  proudest  page! 

The  poets!    the  poets! 
How  endless  is  their  fame ! 
Death,  like  a  thin  mist,  comes,  yet  leaves 
No  shadow  on  each  name; 

(466) 


MARY     E.     LEE. 

But  as  yon  starry  gems  that  gleam 

In  evening's  crystal  sky, 
So  have  they  won,  in  mem'ry's  depths, 

An  immortality! 

The  poets!  the  poets! 

Who  doth  not  linger  o'er 
The  glorious  volumes  that  contain 

Their  pure  and  spotless  lore  ? 
They  charm  us  in  the  saddest  hours, 

Our  richest  joys  they  feed; 
And  love  for  them  has  grown  to  be 

A  universal  creed! 

The  poets!  the  poets! 

Those  kingly  minstrels  dead, 
Well  may  we  twine  a  votive  wreath 

Around  each  honour'd  head. 
No  tribute  is  too  high  to  give 

Those  crown'd  ones  among  men; 
The  poets!   the  true  poets! 

Thanks  be  to  God  for  them! 


HAST     THOU     FORGOT     ME? 

"Thou  and  I 

Have  mingled  the  fresh  thoughts  that  early  die 
Once  flowering  —  never  more!" 

HAST  thou  forgot  me  ?     Thou  who  hast  departed 
Like  a  glad  sunbeam  from  my  yearning  sight, 
Leaving  the  spirit  worn  and  broken-hearted, 
Where  once  hope  built  a  temple  of  delight. 
Hast  thou  forgot  me?     Thou,  unto  whose  keeping 
I  gave  my  every  thought  of  perfect  love, 
Till  on  my  idol's  shrine,  all  treasure  heaping, 
I  scarcely  dared  to  look  to  heaven  above. 


467 


468  MARY     E.     LEE. 

Hast  thou  forgot  me?     Unto  outward  seeming 

My  quivering  lip  with  ready  smile  is  mask'd ; 

And  the  warm  crimson  through  my  cheek  is  streaming,  - 

Alas !  't  is  from  the  fever'd  heart  o'er-task'd ; 

But  could  they  read,  as  in  a  faultless  mirror, 

The  truth  my  woman's  pride  would  still  repress, 

Soon  would  they  own  themselves  to  be  in  error, 

And  mourn  my  lot  of  utter  wretchedness. 

Hast  thou  forgot  me  ?     E'en  in  youth's  glad  hours 
I  trembled  'neath  the  least  glance  of  thine  eye, 
And  life's  gay  pathway  was  bedeck'd  with  flowers 
And  light  and  fragrance  if  thou  wast  but  nigh  ; 
Each  music-note  of  bliss  to  thee  was  given ; 
Each  joy  and  grief  were  told  thee,  e'en  in  birth ; 
Thy  presence  made  my  home  another  heaven, — 
When  thou  wast  absent  't  was  but  common  earth. 

Hast  thou  forgot  me  ?     With  what  fond  endeavour 

I  hurried  on  in  learning's  endless  chase ; 

While  wasted  health  and  strength  seem'd  nought,  if  ever 

I  won  the  dear  approval  from  thy  face; 

The  midnight  toil,  the  strife,  the  weary  vision, 

The  pining  after  knowledge,  vain  and  free, 

I  struggled  against  all,  one  hope  elysian 

Sustain'd  me,  'twas  that  I  might  grow  worthy  thee! 

Hast  thou  forgot  me  ?     Like  yon  flow'ret  bending 

On  fragile  stem,  beneath  the  north  wind's  wrath, 

So  to  the  darksome  tomb  I  am  descending, 

No  more  to  cast  a  shadow  o'er  thy  path; 

A  few  more  months,  and  then  this  care-worn  spirit 

Shall  gently  hush  its  never-ceasing  moan, 

And  find,  what  long  it  yearneth  to  inherit, 

The  narrow  church-yard  plot,  with  weeds  o'ergrown. 


MARY     E.     LEE.  469 

Hast  thou  forgot  me?     Ah!  I  would  not  waken 
One  goading  thought,  beloved  friend,  in  thee  ; 
Nor  brook  to  have  thy  slightest  feeling  shaken 
With  knowledge  of  the  harm  thou  wrought'st  to  me : 
But  oh!  forgive,  if  now,  when  I  am  dying, 
I  breathe  this  wish,  and  let  it  grieve  thee  not! 
That  thou  wilt  seek  my  grave,  and  murmur,  sighing, 
"Though  wrong'd,  neglected,  she  was  not  forgot!" 

THE     RAINY     DAY. 

I  LOVE  to  look  on  a  day  like  this, 

Of  never-tiring  rain, 
When  the  blue  sky  wears  its  sack-cloth  robes, 

And  the  streets  are  a  watery  plain; 
When  the  big  drops  fall  on  the  sounding  roofs, 

With  a  cool  and  a  startling  splash, 
And  the  flute-like  breeze  pours  its  music-notes 

'Gainst  the  close-shut  window-sash. 

I  remember  yet,  though  'twas  long  ago, 

The  beat  of  my  childish  heart, 
When  with  half-conn'd  lesson  I  watch'd  some  morn, 

For  fear  that  the  clouds  might  part; 
And  oh!    what  bliss  when  the  skies'  wide  hall 

Seem'd  paved  as  with  sheets  of  lead, 
Till  the  warning  rain,  at  the  dark  school  hour, 

Forbade  my  out-of-door  tread. 

And  in  youth's  gay  season,  when  wiser  grown, 

I  own,  though  I  blush  to  tell, 
That  each  rainy  day  brought  that  untask'd  time, 

Which  my  spirit  loved  too  well : 
When  the  book  of  knowledge  was  thrown  aside 

For  some  light  and  romantic  lore, 
And  of  antique  ballads  and  honied  rhymes 

My  memory  won  full  store. 
40    ' 


470  MARY     E.     LEE. 

Though  youth  has  gone,  I've  a  passion  still 

For  the  cool  rain's  pleasant  tunes, 
Whether  they  steal  on  the  midnight  hours, 

Or  peal  on  the  sultry  noons; 
Whether  they  come  with  the  fitful  spring, 

Or  the  equinoctial  spell, 
From  the  fierce  black  north,  or  the  sweet  southwest, 

In  all  changes  I  love  them  well. 

'Tis  folly  to  talk  of  my  spirit's  freaks, 

But  its  loftiest  flights  of  thought, 
And  its  friendliest  feelings  to  human-kind, 

From  a  clouded  sky  are  caught; 
And  my  mirth  breaks  out  in  its  merriest  peal, 

And  I  feel  most  the  gift  of  life, 
When  the  wind  and  rain  o'er  a  silent  world 

Hold  elemental  strife. 

'Tis  pleasant  to  watch  how  the  green  trees  quench 

Their  thirst  with  a  long,  full  draught; 
While  the  bright  flowers  hoard  up  an  after  store, 

In  the  cup  but  so  lately  quafPd ; 
And  'tis  pleasant  to  see  how  those  other  flowers, 

The  children  of  every  home, 
Are  stirr'd  with  joy  when  their  parted  lips 

Catch  the  drops  as  they  slowly  come. 

Oh!   better  far  than  a  written  page, 

Is  the  sermon  it  reads  to  me, 
This  plenteous  flood  of  delicious  scent, 

That  falls  in  a  torrent  free; 
It  brings  me  nearer  to  Him  who  gave 

The  early  and  latter  rain, 
And  my  heart  swells  ever  as  now  it  does, 

In  a  fresh  and  an  answering  strain. 


AMELIA  B.   WELBY. 

THIS  sweet  poetess  was  born  at  St.  Michaels,  Maryland,  in  the  year 
1821.  Her  family  name  was  Coppuck.  In  1838,  she  was  married  to 
Mr.  George  B.  Welby,  of  Louisville,  Kentucky,  where  she  still  resides. 
Her  genius  budded  and  blossomed  at  an  early  age,  but  it  was  not  until 
after  her  marriage  that  the  world  scented  the  fragrance  of  its  flowers. 
They  were  gathered  first  by  the  Louisville  Journal,  and  disseminated 
freely  ;  being  warmly  praised,  and  widely  copied  by  other  journals,  until 
the  name  of  Amelia  became  a  welcome  sound  to  all  true  lovers  of 
poetry  and  feeling.  She  writes  with  a  free  and  spirited  pen ;  her  rhythm 
is  always  correct,  and  always  full  of  melody,  worthy  of  expressing  the 
ardent  impulses  of  a  true  and  guileless  heart.  Pure  friendship,  un 
divided  admiration  for  the  beautiful,  and  ever-gushing  love  for  the  gifts 
of  loving  Nature,  seem  to  be  the  chief  incentives  to  her  song.  A 
volume  called  Poems  by  Amelia,  was  published  in  1846,  and  rapidly 
passed  through  four  editions.  From  this  have  been  selected  what  pleases 
us  best ;  though  the  merit  of  all  is  so  uniform,  that  it  is  hard  to  say  which 
are  most  worthy  of  choice. 

MUSINGS. 

I  WANDERED  out  one  summer-night, 

>T  was  when  my  years  were  few, 
The  wind  was  singing  in  the  light, 

And  I  was  singing  too ; 
The  sunshine  lay  upon  the  hill, 

The  shadow  in  the  vale, 
And  here  and  there  a  leaping  rill 

Was  laughing  on  the  gale. 

One  fleecy  cloud  upon  the  air 

Was  all  that  met  my  eyes; 
Jt  floated  like  an  angel  there 

Between  me  and  the  skies; 

(471) 


472 


AMELIA     B.     WELB  Y. 

I  clapp'd  my  hands  and  warbled  wild, 

As  here  and  there  I  flew, 
For  I  was  but  a  careless  child 

And  did  as  children  do. 

The  waves  came  dancing  o'er  the  sea 

In  bright  and  glittering  bands; 
Like  little  children,  wild  with  glee, 

They  link'd  their  dimpled  hands  — 
They  link'd  their  hands,  but,  ere  I  caught 

Their  sprinkled  drops  of  dew, 
They  kiss'd  my  feet,  and,  quick  as  thought, 

Away  the  ripples  flew. 

The  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  flew  by, 

As  lightly  and  as  free ; 
Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

Ten  thousand  on  the  sea; 
For  every  wave  with  dimpled  face, 

That  leap'd  upon  the  air, 
Had  caught  a  star  in  its  embrace, 

And  held  it  trembling  there. 

The  young  moon  too  with  upturn'd  sides 

Her  mirror'd  beauty  gave, 
And,  as  a  bark  at  anchor  rides, 

She  rode  upon  the  wave; 
The  sea  was  like  the  heaven  above, 

As  perfect  and  as  whole, 
Save  that  it  seem'd  to  thrill  with  love 

As  thrills  the  immortal  soul. 

The  leaves,  by  spirit-voices  stirr'd, 

Made  murmurs  on  the  air, 
Low  murmurs,  that  my  spirit  heard 

And  answer'd  with  a  prayer; 


AMELIA     B.     WELBY.  473 

For  'twas  upon  that  dewy  sod, 

Beside  the  moaning  seas, 
I  learn'd  at  first  to  worship  God 

And  sing  such  strains  as  these. 

The  flowers,  all  folded  to  their  dreams, 

Were  bow'd  in  slumber  free 
By  breezy  hills  and  murmuring  streams, 

Where'er  they  chanced  to  be; 
No  guilty  tears  had  they  to  weep, 

No  sins  to  be  forgiven ; 
They  closed  their  leaves  and  went  to  sleep 

'Neath  the  blue  eye  of  heaven. 

No  costly  robes  upon  them  shone, 

No  jewels  from  the  seas, 
Yet  Solomon,  upon  his  throne, 

Was  ne'er  array'd  like  these; 
And  just  as  free  from  guilt  and  art 

Were  lovely  human  flowers, 
Ere  sorrow  set  her  bleeding  heart 

On  this  fair  world  of  ours. 

I  heard  the  laughing  wind  behind 

A-playing  with  my  hair; 
The  breezy  fingers  of  the  wind  — 

How  cool  and  moist  they  were ! 
I  heard  the  night-bird  warbling  o'er 

Its  soft  enchanting  strain ; 
I  never  heard  such  sounds  before, 

And  never  shall  again. 

Then  wherefore  weave  such  strains  as  these 

And  sing  them  day  by  day, 
When  every  bird  upon  the  breeze 

Can  sing  a  sweeter  lay! 
40* 


474  AMELIA     B.     WELBY. 

Fd  give  the  world  for  their  sweet  art. 
The  simple,  the  divine  — 

Pd  give  the  world  to  melt  one  heart 
As  they  have  melted  mine. 


THE     PRESENCE     OF     GOD. 

O  THOU,  who  fling'st  so  fair  a  robe 

Of  clouds  around  the  hills  untrod  — 
Those  mountain-pillars  of  the  globe, 

Whose  peaks  sustain  thy  throne,  O  God! 
All  glittering  round  the  sunset  skies, 

Their  trembling  folds  are  lightly  furl'd, 
As  if  to  shade  from  mortal  eyes 

The  glories  of  yon  upper  world ; 
There,  while  the  evening  star  upholds 
In  one  bright  spot  their  purple  folds, 
My  spirit  lifts  its  silent  prayer, 
For  Thou,  the  God  of  love,  art  there. 

The  summer  flowers,  the  fair,  the  sweet, 

Upspringing  freely  from  the  sod, 
In  whose  soft  looks  we  seem  to  meet, 

At  every  step,  Thy  smiles,  O  God ! 
The  humblest  soul  their  sweetness  shares, 

They  bloom  in  palace-hall,  or  cot  — 
Give  me,  O  Lord  !  a  heart  like  theirs, 

Contented  with  my  lowly  lot ! 
Within  their  pure  ambrosial  bells, 
In  odours  sweet  Thy  Spirit  dwells ; 
Their  breath  may  seem  to  scent  the  air  — 
'T  is  Thine,  O  God !  for  Thou  art  there. 

List!  from  yon  casement  low  and  dim 

What  sounds  are  these,  that  fill  the  breeze? 


AMELIA     B.     WELBY.  475 

It  is  the  peasant's  evening  hymn 

Arrests  the  fishers  on  the  seas  — 
The  old  man  leans  his  silver  hairs 

Upon  his  light  suspended  oar. 
Until  those  soft  delicious  airs 

Have  died  like  ripples  on  the  shore. 
Why  do  his  eyes  in  softness  roll  ? 
What  melts  the  manhood  from  his  soul  ? 
His  heart  is  fill'd  with  peace  and  prayer, 
For  Thou,  O  God !  art  with  him  there. 

The  birds  among  the  summer-blooms 

Pour  forth  to  thee  their  strains  of  love, 
When,  trembling  on  uplifted  plumes, 

They  leave  the  earth  and  soar  above ; 
We  hear  their  sweet  familiar  airs 

Where'er  a  sunny  spot  is  found; 
How  lovely  is  a  life  like  theirs, 

Diffusing  sweetness  all  around  ! 
From  clime  to  clime,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Their  sweetest  anthems  softly  roll, 
Till,  melting  on  the  realms  of  air, 
Thy  still  small  voice  seems  whispering  there. 

The  stars,  those  floating  isles  of  light, 

Round  which  the  clouds  unfurl  their  sails, 
Pure  as  a  woman's  robe  of  white 

That  trembles  round  the  form  it  veils, 
They  touch  the  heart  as  witli  a  spell, 

Yet,  set  the  soaring  fancy  free, 
And  O  how  sweet  the  tales  they  tell ! 

They  tell  of  peace,  of  love,  and  Thee ! 
Each  raging  storm  that  wildly  blows, 
Each  balmy  gale  that  lifts  the  rose, 
Sublimely  grand,  or  softly  fair, 
They  speak  of  Thee,  for  Thou  art  there. 


476  AMELIA     B.     WELBY. 

The  spirit  oft  oppress'd  with  doubt, 

May  strive  to  cast  Thee  from  its  thought, 
But  who  can  shut  thy  presence  out, 

Thou  mighty  Guest  that  com'st  unsought! 
In  spite  of  all  our  cold  resolves, 

Whatever  our  thoughts,  where'er  we  be, 
Still  magnet-like  the  heart  revolves, 

And  points,  all  trembling,  up  to  Thee; 
We  cannot  shield  a  troubled  breast 
Beneath  the  confines  of  the  bless'd, 
Above,  below,  on  earth,  in  air, 
For  Thou  the  living  God  art  there. 

Yet,  far  beyond  the  clouds  outspread, 

Where  soaring  fancy  oft  hath  been, 
There  is  a  land  where  thou  hast  said 

The  pure  of  heart  shall  enter  in ; 
In  those  fair  realms  so  calmly  bright 

How  many  a  loved  and  gentle  one 
Bathes  its  soft  plumes  in  living  light 

That  sparkles  from  Thy  radiant  Throne! 
There  souls,  once  soft  and  sad  as  ours, 
Look  up  and  sing  'mid  fadeless  flowers  — 
They  dream  no  more  of  grief  and  care, 
For  Thou,  the  God  of  peace,  art  there. 


THE     FREED     BI  RD. 

THY  cage  is  open'd,  bird !  too  well  I  love  thee 
To  bar  the  sunny  things  of  earth  from  thee; 

A  whole  broad  heaven  of  blue  lies  calm  above  thee, 
The  green-wood  waves  beneath,  and  thou  art  free ; 

These  slender  wires  shall  prison  thee  no  more  — 

Up,  bird !  and  'mid  the  clouds  thy  thrilling  music  pour. 


AMELIA     B.     WELBY.  477 

Away!  away!  the  laughing  waters,  playing, 
Break  on  the  fragrant  shore  in  ripples  blue, 

And  the  green  leaves  unto  the  breeze  are  laying 
Their  shining  edges,  fringed  with  drops  of  dew; 

And,  here  and  there,  a  wild  flower  lifts  its  head, 

Refresh'd  with  sudden  life  from  many  a  sunbeam  shed. 

How  sweet  thy  voice  will  sound !  for  o'er  yon  river 
The  wing  of  silence,  like  a  dream,  is  laid, 

And  naught  is  heard  save  where  the  wood-boughs  quiver, 
Making  rich  spots  of  trembling  light  and  shade. 

And  a  new  rapture  thy  wild  spirit  fills, 

For  joy  is  on  the  breeze,  and  morn  upon  the  hills. 

Now,  like  the  aspen,  plays  each  quivering  feather 

Of  thy  swift  pinion,  bearing  thee  along, 
Up,  where  the  morning  stars  once  sang  together, 

To  pour  the  fulness  of  thine  own  rich  song; 
And  now  thou  'rt  mirror'd  to  my  dazzled  view, 
A  little  dusky  speck  amid  a  world  of  blue. 

Yet  I  will  shade  mine  eye  and  still  pursue  thee, 

As  thou  dost  melt  in  soft  ethereal  air, 
Till  angel-ones,  sweet  bird,  will  bend  to  view  thee, 

And  cease  their  hymns  awhile  thine  own  to  share; 
And  there  thou  art,  with  light  clouds  round  thee  furl'd, 
Just  poised  beneath  yon  vault,  that  arches  o'er  the  world. 

A  free  wild  spirit  unto  thee  is  given, 

Bright  minstrel  of  the  blue  celestial  dome ! 

For  thou  wilt  wander  to  yon  upper  heaven, 

And  bathe  thy  plumage  in  the  sunbeam's  home; 

Ahd,  soaring  upward  from  thy  dizzy  height 

On  free  and  fearless  wing,  be  lost  to  human  sight. 

Lute  of  the  summer  clouds !  whilst  thou  art  singing 
Unto  thy  Maker  thy  soft  matin  hymn, 


_J 


478  AMELIA     B  .     W  E  L  B  Y  . 

My  own  mild  spirit,  from  its  temple  springing, 
Would  freely  join  thee  in  the  distance  dim ; 
But  I  can  only  gaze  on  thee  and  sigh 
With  heart  upon  my  lip,  bright  minstrel  of  the  sky ! 

And  yet,  sweet  bird !  bright  thoughts  to  me  are  given 
As  many  as  the  clustering  leaves  of  June ; 

And  my  young  heart  is  like  a  harp  of  heaven, 
Forever  strung  unto  some  pleasant  tune; 

And  my  soul  burns  with  wild  poetic  fire, 

Though  simple  are  my  strains,  and  simpler  still  my  lyre. 

And  now,  farewell !  the  wild  wind  of  the  mountain 
And  the  blue  streams  alone  my  strains  have  heard ; 

And  it  is  well,  for  from  my  heart's  deep  fountain 
They  flow,  uncultured,  as  thine  own,  sweet  bird! 

For  my  free  thoughts  have  ever  spurned  control, 

Since  this  heart  held  a  wish,  and  this  frail  form  a  soul ! 


MY      SISTERS. 

LIKE  flowers  that  softly  bloom  together 

Upon  one  fair  and  fragile  stem, 
Mingling  their  sweets  in  sunny  weather 

Ere  strange  rude  hands  have  parted  them, 
So  were  we  linked  unto  each  other 

Sweet  Sisters,  in  our  childish  hours, 
For  then  one  fond  and  gentle  mother 

To  us  was  like  the  stem  to  flowers ; 
She  was  the  golden  thread,  that  bound  us 

In  one  bright  chain  together  here, 
Till  Death  unloosed  the  cord  around  us, 

And  we  were  sever'd  far  and  near. 

The  floweret's  stem,  when  broke  or  shatter'd, 
Must  cast  its  blossoms  to  the  wind, 


AMELIA     B.     WELBY.  479 

Yet,  round  the  buds,  though  widely  scattered, 

The  same  soft  perfume  still  we  find; 
And  thus,  although  the  tie  is  broken 

That  link'd  us  round  our  mother's  knee, 
The  memory  of  words  we've  spoken, 

When  we  were  children  light  and  free, 
Will,  like  the  perfume  of  each  blossom, 

Live  in  our  hearts  where'er  we  roam, 
As  when  we  slept  on  one  fond  bosom, 

And  dwelt  within  one  happy  home. 

I  know  that  changes  have  come  o'er  us ; 

Sweet  Sisters !  we  are  not  the  same, 
For  different  paths  now  lie  before  us, 

And  all  three  have  a  different  name ; 
And  yet,  if  sorrow's  dimming  fingers 

Have  shadow'd  o'er  each  youthful  brow, 
So  much  of  light  around  them  lingers 

I  cannot  trace  those  shadows  now. 
Ye  both  have  those  who  love  ye  only, 

Whose  dearest  hopes  are  round  you  thrown, 
While,  like  a  stream  that  wanders  lonely, 

Am  I,  the  youngest,  wildest  one. 

My  heart  is  like  the  wind,  that  beareth 

Sweet  scents  upon  its  unseen  wing  — 
The  wind !  that  for  no  creature  careth, 

Yet  stealeth  sweets  from  every  thing ; 
It  hath  rich  thoughts  for  ever  leaping 

Up,  like  the  waves  of  flashing  seas, 
That  with  their  music  still  are  keeping 

Soft  time  with  every  fitful  breeze ; 
Each  leaf  that  in  the  bright  air  quivers, 

The  sounds  from  hidden  solitudes, 
And  the  deep  flow  of  far-off  rivers, 

And  the  loud  rush  of  many  floods ; 


480  AMELIA     B.     WELBY. 

All  these,  and  more,  stir  in  my  bosom 

Feelings  that  make  my  spirit  glad, 
Like  dew-drops  shaken  in  a  blossom ; 

And,  yet  there  is  a  something  sad 
Mix'd  with  those  thoughts,  like  clouds,  that  hover 

Above  us  in  the  quiet  air, 
Veiling  the  moon's  pale  beauty  over, 

Like  a  dark  spirit  brooding  there. 

But,  Sisters!  those  wild  thoughts  were  never 

Yours!  ye  would  not  love,  like  me, 
To  gaze  upon  the  stars  for  ever, 

To  hear  the  wind's  wild  melody. 
Ye'd  rather  look  on  smiling  faces, 

And  linger  round  a  cheerful  hearth, 
Than  mark  the  stars'  bright  hiding-places 

As  they  peep  out  upon  the  earth. 
But,  Sisters !  as  the  stars  of  even 

Shrink  from  day's  golden  flashing  eye, 
And,  melting  in  the  depths  of  heaven, 

Veil  their  soft  beams  within  the  sky ; 
So  shall  we  pass,  the  joyous-hearted, 

The  fond,  the  young,  like  stars  that  wane, 
Till  every  link  of  earth  be  parted, 

To  form  in  heaven  one  mystic  chain. 

THE     AMERICAN     SWORD. 

SWORD  of  our  gallant  fathers,  defender  of  the  brave, 
Of  Washington  upon  the  field  and  Perry  on  the  wave ! 
Well  might  Columbia's  foemen  beneath  thy  death-strokes  reel, 
For  each  hand  was  firm  that  drew  thee,  and  each  heart  as  true 

as  steel ; 

There's  not  a  tarnish  on  thy  sheen,  a  rust  upon  thy  blade , 
Though  the  noble  hands  that  drew  thee  are  in  dust  and  ashes 

laid, 


AMELIA     B.     WELBY.  481 

Thou'rt  still  the  scourge  of  tyrants,  the  safeguard  of  the  free, 
And  may  God  desert  our  banner  when  we  surrender  thee! 

Sword  of  a  thousand  victories  !  thy  splendours  led  the  way, 
When  our  warriors  trod  the  battle-field  in  terrible  array  ; 
Thou  wert  seen  amid  the  carnage,  like  an  angel  in  thy  wrath; 
The  vanquish'd  and  the    vanquisher  bestrew'd  thy  gory  path  ; 
The  life-blood  of  the  haughty  foe  made  red  the  slippery  sod 
Where  thy  crimson  blade  descended  like  the  lightning   glance 

of  God  ! 
They  pour'd  their  ranks  like  autumn  leaves,  their  life-blood  as 

the  sea, 
But  they  battled  for  a  tyrant  —  we  battled  to  be  free! 

Sword  of  a  thousand  heroes,  how  holy  is  thy  blade, 

So  often  drawn  by  Valour's  arm,  by  gentle  Pity's  stay'd  ! 

The  warrior   breathes    his   vow  by  thee,  and    seals    it  with   a 

kiss, 

He  never  gives  a  holier  pledge,  he  asks  no  more  than  this; 
And,  when  he  girds  thee  to  his  side  with  battle  in  his  face, 
He  feels  within  his  single  arm  the  strength  of  all  his  race; 
He  shrines  thee  in  his  noble  breast,  with  all  things  bright  and 

free; 
And  may  God  desert  his  standard,  when  he  surrenders    thee! 

Sword  of  our  country's  battles  T  for  ever  mayst  thou  prove, 
Amid  Columbia's  freemen,  the  thunderbolt  of  Jove  ; 
Where  like  a  youthful  victress,  with  her  holy  flag  unfurl'd, 
She  sits  amid  the  nations,  the  empress  of  the   world. 
Behold  the  heaven-born  goddess,  in  her  glory  and  increase, 
Extending  in  her  lovely  hands  the  olive-branch  of  peace, 
Thy  glittering  steel  is  girded  on,  the  safeguard  of  the  free, 
And  may  God  desert  her  standard  when  she  surrenders    thee! 


41 


482  AMELIA     B.     WELBY 


SEVENTEEN. 

I  HAVE  a  fair  and  gentle  friend, 

Whose,  heart  is  pure,  I  ween, 
As  ever  was  a  maiden's  heart 

At  joyous  seventeen ; 
She  dwells  among  us  like  a  star, 

That,  from  its  bower  of  bliss, 
Looks  down,  yet  gathers  not  a  stain 

From  aught  it  sees  in  this. 

I  do  not  mean  that  flattery 

Has  never  reach'd  her  ear ; 
I  only  say  its  syren  song 

Has  no  effect  on  her; 
For  she  is  all  simplicity, 

A  creature  soft  and  mild  — 
Though  on  the  eve  of  womanhood, 

In  heart  a  very  child. 

And  yet,  within  the  misty  depths 

Of  her  dark  dreamy  eyes, 
A  shadowy  something,  like  deep  thought, 

In  tender  sadness  lies; 
For  though  her  glance  still  shines  as  bright 

As  in  her  childish  years, 
Its  wildness  and  its  lustre,  now, 

Are  soften'd  down  by  tears :  — 

Tears,  that  steal  not  from  hidden  springs 

Of  sorrow  and  regret, 
For  none  but  lovely  feelings 

In  her  gentle  breast  have  met, 


J 


AMELIA     B.WELBY.  483 

For  every  tear  that  gems  her  eye, 

From  her  young  bosom  flows 
Like  dew-drops  from  a  golden  star, 

Or  perfume  from  a  rose. 

For  e'en  in  life's  delicious  spring, 

We  oft  have  memories 
That  throw  around  our  sunny  hearts 

A  transient  cloud  of  sighs; 
For  a  wondrous  change  within  the  heart 

At  that  sweet  time  is  wrought, 
When  on  the  heart  is  softly  laid 

A  spell  of  deeper  thought. 

And  she  has  reach'd  that  lovely  time, 

That  sweet  poetic  age, 
When  to  the  eye  each  floweret's  leaf 

Seems  like  a  glowing  page; 
For  a  beauty  and  a  mystery 

About  the  heart  are  thrown, 
When  childhood's  merry  laughter  yields 

To  girlhood's  softer  tone. 

I  do  not  know  if  round  her  heart 

Love  yet  hath  thrown  his  wing, 
I  rather  think  she's  like  myself, 

An  April-hearted  thing; 
I  only  know  that  she  is  fair, 

And  loves  me  passing  well ; 
But  who  this  gentle  maiden  is 

I  feel  not  free  to  tell. 


JULIET  H.  CAMPBELL. 

Miss  LEWIS,  now  Mrs.  Campbell,  was  born  in  the  year  1823,  at 
Williamsport,  Ly.coming  County,  Pa. ;  but  soon  after  her  birth,  her 
parents  removed  to  Towanda,  Bradford  County,  in  which  romantic  spot 
the  happiest  period  of  her  childhood  was  spent.  Here  she  revelled 
amidst  the  choicest  beauties  of  nature;  and  here,  inspired  by  the  joyous 
harmony  of  woods,  and  streams,  and  valleys,  she  tirst  attempted  to  make 
music  of  her  thoughts.  Her  father,  the  Hon.  Ellis  Lewis,  — a  learned 
lawyer  and  judge,  a  man  of  fine  taste  and  superior  talent,  —  was  well 
fitted  for  the  task  he  never  wearied  in,  of  guarding  and  guiding  the 
rich  developments  of  his  daughter's  mind  and  heart.  Although  she  was 
sent  to  a  seminary  at  Bethlehem,  and  afterwards  to  a  French  boarding- 
school  at  Philadelphia,  she  was  educated  (in  the  true  sense  of  that  term) 
by  the  society  and  conversation  of  her  father.  She  wrote  much  when 
only  fourteen  ;  and  everything  that  has  been  published  under  her  maiden 
name,  was  written  during  the  space  of  three  years  from  that  early  age. 
When  yet  a  girl,  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Campbell,  a  member  of  the 
bar,  in  Pottsville,  where  they  now  reside;  and  so  happy  and  busy  is 
she  in  her  domestic  life,  as  to  have  very  little  time  for  the  use  of  her 
pen.  May  this  happiness  be  as  lasting  as  her  life  !  And  yet,  so  great 
is  the  beauty  and  freshness  of  her  poetic  talent,  as  to  compel  us  to  ex 
press  the  hope  that  they  may  not  be  suffered  to  wither  and  die  for  want 
of  proper  attention. 

DREAMS. 

MANY,  oh!   man,  are  the  wild  dreams  beguiling 
Thy  spirit  of  its  restlessness,  and  ever 
Thou  rushest  onward,  some  new  prize  pursuing, 
Like  the  mad  waves  of  a  relentless  river. 
First  Love,  the  morning  sun  of  thy  existence, 
Enchants  thy  path  with  glories  and  with  bliss: 
Oh !   linger,  for  the  shadowy  hereafter 
Hath  nought  to  offer  that  can  equal  this! 

(484) 


JULIET     H.     CAMPBELL.  485 

Linger,  and  revel  in  thy  first  young  dreaming, 
The  holiest  that  can  thrill  thy  yearning  heart, 
Husband  the  precious  moments,  the  brief  feeling 
Of  youthful  ecstasy  will  soon  depart.  > 

Seek  not  to  win  too  soon  that  which  thou  lovest, 
When  winning  will  but  break  the  magic  spell ; 
Love  on,  but  seek  not,  strive  not,  —  the  attainment 
Will  cloy  thy  fickle  heart,  thy  dream  dispel. 

Vain  is  the  warning!     Death  as  soon  will  listen 

To  the  beseechings  of  his  stricken  prey; 

Or  Time  will  tarry  when  the  cowering  nations 

Shrink  from  their  desolating  destiny! 

Thou  art  as  fierce  as  fate  in  thy  pursuing ; 

Thou  art  impetuous  as  the  flight  of  Time ; 

And  didst  thou  love  a  star,  thy  mad  presuming 

Would  pluck  it  from  high  heaven,  and  dim  its  shine. 

And  now  Ambition,  like  a  radiant  angel, 

Attracts  thy  vision,  and  enchains  thy  thought ; 

Ambition  is  thy  god,  and  thou  art  laying 

Thy  all  before  the  insatiate  Juggernaut; 

The  health,  the  strength,  which   crown'd  thy  youth  with 

glory, 

The  friends  who  loved  thee  in  thy  early  day, 
The  clinging  love  which  once  thy  bosom  cherish'd ; — 
All  these  are  cast,  like  worthless  weeds,  away. 

Take  now  the  prize  for  which  thou'st  madly  bartered, 
Thy  first,  best  treasures ;    and  in  lonely  grief 
Enjoy  Fame's  emptiness,  and  broken-hearted, 
Feed  on  the  poison  of  my  laurel  leaf; 
Then,  sated,  turn  in  bitter  disappointment 
From  the  applause  of  flattery's  fawning  troop, 
And  curse,  within  thy  cheated  heart's  recesses, 
Ambition's  demon,  and  thyself  his  dupe  ! 
41* 


JULIET     H.     CAMPBELL. 

These  are  the  visions  of  thy  youth    and  manhood; 
With  disappointment,  wilt  thou  grow  more  sage? 
Alas,  more  grovelling  yet,  and  more  degrading, 
Is  Avarice,  the  sordid  dream  of  age  ! 
When  all  the  joys  of  summer  have  departed, 
And  life  is  stripp'd  alike  of  birds  and  bloom, 
'Tis  sad  to  see  Age,  in  his  dotage,  treasure 
The  wither'd  leaves  beside  his  yawning  tomb ! 

Yes,  many  are  thy  dreams,  while  gentle  woman 
Hath  but  one  vision,  and  it  is  of  thee ! 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,  (most  Christian  graces,) 
In  her  meek  bosom  dwell,  a  trinity 
Combined  in  unit;    and  an  earthly  Godhead 
Whose  name  is  Love,  demands  her  worshipping; 
And  she,  e'en  as  the  Hindoo  to  his  idol, 
The  blind  devotion  of  her  heart  doth  bring, 
And  when  her  god  of  clay  hath  disappointed, 
Earth  can  enchant  no  more ;    she  looks  above, 
Laying  her  crush'd  heart  on  her  Saviour's  bosom. 
Love  was  her  heaven,  no\y  Heaven  is  her  love. 

A     C  ONFE  S  SIGN. 

THEY  are  not  tears  of  sorrowing, 
Then,  dearest,  chide  me  not! 

I  weep  with  very  thankfulness, 
For  this,  my  blessed  lot. 

I  think  me  of  the  rose-hued  past, 
And  tears  will  fall  like  rain; 

I  turn  me  to  my  present  bliss, 
And  forth  they  gush  again. 

The  past,  the  sunny  past  was  like 

A  glorious  dream  to  me, 
The  earth  was  as  a  fairy  land, 

And  fairy  creatures  we. 


JULIET     H.     CAMPBELL.  487 

The  hours  went  by  as  angels  would 
When  forced  from  heaven  to  roam; 

Each  gave  a  blessing  as  it  past, 
And  hastened  to  its  home. 

The  memories  of  those  vanish'd  hours 

Throng  round  me  like  a  spell, 
And  charm  these  drops  of  tenderness 

Up  from  their  secret  cell 

Yet,  love,  I  would  not  barter  now 

The  luxury  of  these  tears, 
For  all  the  joys  that  woo  my  thoughts 

Back  to  those  by-gone  years! 

For  though  my  heart,  blithe  as  a  bird, 
From  flower  to  flower  would  rove, 

It  had  not  known  thy  tenderness, 
It  had  not  felt  thy  love  ! 


LINES     AT     NIGHT. 

I 

I  HAVE  wander'd  in  the  moonlight, 

And  my  brow  has  met  the  breeze, 
With  its  forest-freight  of  odours, 

And  its  soughing  like  the  seas. 
I  have  listen'd  to  the  night-bird, 

As  she  chaunts  her  mellow  lay; 
But  my  heart  is  very  heavy, 

And  I  would  be  far  away.  { 

The  breeze  may  journey  onward 

With  its  restless,  rustling  wings  ; 
The  bird  may  ease  her  bosom, 

When  her  sadden'd  lay  she  sings; 
But  my  sorrow  must  be  voiceless, 

Or  but  spoken  when  I  pray, 


488  JULIET     H.     CAMPBELL. 

And  I  linger  here,  a  captive, 
When  I  would  be  far  away! 

The  rude  old  church  seems  frowning 

As  it  looms  upon  my  eyes, 
With  its  corner-stone  deep  buried, 

While  its  spire  is  in  the  skies. 
List,  a  moral  I  will  read  you, 

From  this  temple,  quaint    and  gray ; 
Though  the  clod  must  seek  the  valley, 

Lo,  the  soul  shall  soar  away ! 

I  would  step  into  the  church-yard, 

But  at  every  sleeper's  head 
Stands  a  tombstone,  cold  and  pallid, 

Like  the  spirit  of  the  dead. 
And  I  almost  see  them  beckon  me, 

I  almost  hear  them  say, — 
u  There  is  rest  with  us,  oh!   mortal, 

Come  away,  then,  come  away !" 

T  A  RP  E  I  A. 

Tarpeia,  the  daughter  of  Tarpeius,  the  keeper  of  the  Roman  capitol,  agreed 
to  hetray  it  into  the  hands  of  the  Sahines  on  this  condition,  "  that  she  should 
have  for  her  reward  that  which  they  carried  upon  their  left  arms,"  meaning 
the  golden  bracelets  they  wore  upon  them.  The  Sabines  having  been  let  in 
by  Tarpeia,  according  to  compact,  Titus,  their  king,  well  pleased  with  having 
carried  the  place,  yet  detesting  the  manner  in  which  it  was  done,  commanded 
the  Sabines  to  give  the  traitoress  her  promised  reward,  by  throwing  to  her  all 
they  wore  upon  their  left  arms  ;  and  therewith,  unclasping  his  bracelet  from 
his  left  arm,  he  cast  that,  together  with  his  shield,  upon  her.  All  the  Sabines 
following  the  example  of  their  chief,  the  traitoress  was  speedily  overwhelmed 
with  the  number  of  bracelets  and  shields  heaped  upon  her,  and  perished  be 
neath  them. 

UXBLUSHINGLY  the  maiden  stood, — 

Rome's  recreant,  shameless  child ! 
While    round  were  ranged  her  country's  foes, 

Those  Sabine  warriors  wild. 


JULIET     H.     CAMPBELL.  489 

They  stood  with  lips  all  proudly  curl'd; 

And  brows  bent  down  in  ire, 
And  eyes,  that  on  the  traitoress 

Flash'd  forth  their  haughty  fire, 

As  though  they'd  sear  her  very  soul 

With  their  consuming  scorn; 
Such  deep  disdain,  a  noble  heart 

Had  never  brook'd  or  borne. 

In  his  right  hand  each  warrior  clasp'd 

His  blade,  all  stain'd  with  gore, 
While  on  his  stout  left  arm,  a  shield 

Of  massive  weight  he  bore; 

And  round  that  arm  a  bracelet  bright 

Was  bound  —  of  shining  gold  : 
?T  was  for  those  gleaming  bands,  that  Rome, 

Proud  boasting  Rome,  was  sold. 

All  silently  they  stood,  when  hark! 

Their  lord  and  chieftain  speaks : 
"Ha!  this  is  well;  her  just  reward 

From  us,  Tarpeia  seeks. 

Thy  heritage  —  is  Rome's  deep  hate; 

Thy  memory — lasting  shame; 
And  thou  hast  wedded  to  a  curse 

Thy  once  untarnish'd  name 

Thy  father  is  the  prey  of  worms, 

His  life-blood  stains  my  blade; 
Thy  city  is  one  mighty  bier 

On  which  her  sons  are  laid. 

Thy  home,  —  earth  does  not  hold  a  spot 

Loathsome  enough  for  thee, 
And  one  long  life  of  bitter  woe, 

Of  torture,  agony, 


490  SARA     J.     CLARKE. 

Were  all  too  blissful  for  thy  lot ; 

And  shall  I  let  thee  live, 
When  anguish,  such  as  thou  should'st  feel, 

This  world  can  never  give  ? 

But  I  have  not  discharged  the  debt 
From  Sabines  due  to  thee :  — 

Warriors,  on  your  left  arms,  you  bear 
The  price  of  treachery!" 

He  threw  to  her  the  bribe,  for  which 

Imperial  Rome  was  lost, 
And  there  upon  the  traitoress 

His  heavy  shield  he  toss'd. 

She  fell  beneath  it,  with  one  shriek, 

One  agonizing  moan, 
While  fast  the  weighty  shields  were  piled, 

And  golden  bracelets  thrown. 

Buried  beneath  her  infamy, 

Crush'd  'neath  her  weight  of  guilt; 

Her  ignominious  monument 
Of  her  reward  was  built. 


SARA  J.  CLARKE 

WAS  born  in  a  small  village  in  Onondaga  Co.,  New  York.  She  went 
to  school  at  Rochester,  and  while  there  her  poems  were  first  published 
in  the  papers  of  that  city.  Afterwards  she  resided  in  New  Brighton, 
a  village  situated  in  the  western  part  of  Pennsylvania,  and  soon  became 
known  to  the  literary  world,  by  her  contributions  to  the  New  Mirror, 
which  was  then  just  re-established  by  Willis  and  Morris.  Her  poems 
she  signed  with  her  real  name,  but  her  spirited  prose  sketches, 


SARA    J.     CLARKE 


491 


which  displayed  so  much  wit  and  keen  observation,  she  wrote  under  a 
feigned  signature ;  and  it  is  only  within  a  very  short  time  that  Sara  J. 
Clarke  and  Grace  Greenwood  are  known  to  be  the  same  person.  She 
has  recently  conducted  The  Lady's  Paper,  for  Mr.  Godey  of  Philadel 
phia  ;  her  home,  however,  is  still  in  New  Brighton.  Her  nom-de-guerre 
was  very  happily  chosen.  It  is  descriptive  of  her  genius ;  for  her  style 
both  in  prose  and  verse  possesses  a  natural  grace ;  while  her  thoughts  and 
feelings  have,  assuredly,  as  much  freedom  and  freshness,  health,  joy, 
and  harmony,  as  is  found  of  a  May  morning,  in  the  merrie  greenwood. 
Although  she  is  decidedly  original,  and  evidently  too  honest  and  too 
proud  to  copy,  yet  she  strongly  reminds  us  of  Eliza  Cook.  The  same 
noble  enthusiasm,  the  same  high-spirited  independence,  the  same  gene 
rous  and  far-reaching  sympathy,  and  the  same  love  —  bold,  free,  and 
fearless — of  nature  and  adventure,  characterize  both.  In  the  heart- 
arousing  Voices  from  the  Old  World,  and  the  dashing  Morning  Ride, 
this  resemblance  is  very  observable ;  it  is  not  to  be  seen,  however,  in 
the  skilful  arid  nervous  poem  on  Ariadne,  whose  features  remind  us  of 
no  other,  in  their  lofty  scorn,  and  stinging  satire. 


ARIADNE. 

The  demi-god,  Theseus,  having  won  the  love  of  Ariadne,  daughter  of  the 
King  of  Crete,  deserted   her  on  the   isle   of  Naxos.      In    Miss    Bremer's 

«  H Family,"  the  blind  girl  is  described  as  singing  "  Ariadne  d 

Naxos,"  in  which  Ariadne  is  represented  as  following  Theseus,  climbing  a 
high  rock  to  watch  his  departing  vessel,  and  calling  upon  him,  in  her  des 
pairing  anguish. 

DAUGHTER  of  Crete  —  how  one  brief  hour, 

E'en  in  thy  young  love's  early  morn, 
Sends- storm  and  darkness  o'er  thy  bower  — 

Oh  doom'd,  oh  desolate,  oh  lorn ! 
The  breast  which  pillow'd  thy  fair  head 

Rejects  its  burden  —  and  the  eye 

Which  look'd  its  love  so  earnestly, 
Its  last  cold  glance  hath  pn  thee  shed ;  — 
The  arms  which  were  thy  living  zone, 
Around  thee  closely,  warmly  thrown, 
Shall  others  clasp  —  deserted  one  ! 


492  SARA     J.     CLARKE. 

Yet,  Ariadne,  worthy  thou 
Of  the  dark  fate  which  meets  thee  now, 
For  thou  art  grovelling  in  thy  woe ! 
Arouse  thee!  joy  to  bid  him  go; 
For  god  above,  or  man  below, 
Whose  love's  impetuous  fervent  tide 
Cold  interest,  or  selfish  pride 
Can  chill,  or  stay,  or  turn  aside, 
Is  all  too  poor  and  mean  a  thing, 
One  shade  o'er  woman's  brow  to  fling 

Of  grief,  regret,  or  fear ;  — 
To  cloud  one  morning's  golden  light, — 
Disturb  the  sweet  dreams  of  one  night, — 
To  cause  the  soft  lash  of  her  eye 
To  droop  one  moment  mournfully, 

Or  tremble  with  one  tear! 

'Tis  thou  should'st  triumph  —  thou  art  free 
From  chains  which  bound  thee  for  awhile  — 

This,  this  the  farewell  meet  for  thee, 
Proud  Princess  on  that  lonely  isle:  — 

"Go  —  to  thine  Athens  bear  thy  faithless  name! 

Go,  base  betrayer  of  a  holy  trust! 
Oh,  I  could  bow  me  in  my  utter  shame, 

And  lay  my  crimson  forehead  in  the  dust, 
If  I  had  ever  loved  thee  as  thou  art, 
Folding  mean  falsehood  to  my  high  true  heart! 

"But  thus  I  loved  thee  not  —  Before  me  bow'd 

A  being  glorious  in  majestic  pride, 
And  breathed  his  love  and  passionately  vow'd 

To  worship  only  me  his  peerless  bride ; 
And  this  was  thou — but  crown'd,  enrobed,  entwined, 
With  treasures  borrow'd  from  my  own  rich  mind! 


SARA     J.     CLARKE.  493 

"  I  knew  thee  not  a  creature  of  my  dreams, 

And  my  rapt  soul  went  floating  into  thine ! 
My  love  around  thee  pour'd  such  halo-beams, 

Had'st  thou  been  true  had  made  thee  all  divine — 
And  I,  too,  seem'd  immortal  in  my  bliss, 
When  my  glad  lip  thrill'd  to  thy  burning  kiss! 

"  Shrunken  and  shrivelPd  into  Theseus  now 

Thou  stand'st.  Behold  the  gods  have  blown  away 
The  airy  crown  that  glittered  on  thy  brow  — 

The  gorgeous  robes  which  wrapp'd  thee  for  a  day ; 
Around  thee  scarce  one  fluttering  fragment  clings  — 
A  poor  lean  beggar  in  all  glorious  things! 

"  Nor  will  I  deign  to  cast  on  thee  my  hate  — 
It  were  a  ray  to  tinge  with  splendour  still 
The  dull,  dim  twilight  of  thy  after  fate  — 

Thou  shalt  pass  from  me  like  a  dream  of  ill  — 
Thy  name  be  but  a  thing  that  crouching  stole 
Like  a  poor  thief,  all  noiseless  from  my  soul! 

"Though  thou  hast  dared  to  steal  the  sacred  flame 

From  out  that  soul's  high  heaven,  she  sets  thee  free ; 
Or  only  chains  thee  with  thy  sounding  shame  — 

Her  memory  is  no  Caucasus  for  thee ; 
And  e'en  her  hovering  hate  would  o'er  thee  fling 
Too  much  of  glory  from  its  shadowy  wing! 

"Thou  think'st  to  leave  my  life  a  lonely  night  — 

Ha!  it  is  night  all  glorious  with  its  stars! 
Hopes  yet  unclouded  beaming  forth  their  light, 

And  free  thoughts  rolling  in  their  silver  cars  J 
And  queenly  pride,  serene,  and  cold,  and  high, 
Moves  the  Diana  of  its  calm,  clear  sky! 

"  If  poor  and  humbled  thou  believest  me, 

Mole  of  a  demi-god,  how  blind  art  thou. 
42 


494  SARA     J.     CLARKE. 

For  I  am  rich  —  in  scorn  to  pour  on  thee! 

And  gods  shall  bend  from  high  Olympus'  brow, 
And  gaze  in  wonder  on  my  lofty  pride, 
Naxos  be  hallow'd,  I  be  deified!" 

On  the  tall  cliff  where  cold  and  pale 
Thou  watchest  his  receding  sail, 
Where  thou,  the  daughter  of  a  King, 
WaiPst  like  a  wind-harp's  breaking  string, 
Bend'st  like  a  weak  and  wilted  flower 
Before  a  summer  evening's  shower, — 
There  should'st  thou  rear  thy  royal  form, 
Like  a  young  oak  amid  the  storm, 

Uncrush'd,  unbow'd,  unriven! 
Let  thy  last  glance  burn  through  the  air, 
And  fall  far  down  upon  him  there, 

Like  lightning-stroke  from  Heaven! 

There  should'st  thou  mark  o'er  billowy  crest 

His  white  sail  flutter  and  depart, 
No  wild  fears  surging  at  thy  breast, 

No  vain  hopes  quivering  round  thy  heart; 
And  this  brief,  burning  prayer  alone 
Leap  from  thy  lips  to  Jove's  high  throne:  — 

"Just  Jove!     Thy  wrathful  vengeance  stay, 
And  speed  the  traitor  on  his  way! 
Make  vain  the  Syren's  silver  song, 
Let  Nereids  smile  the  wave  along  — 
O'er  the  wild  waters  send  his  barque 
Like  a  swift  arrow  to  its  mark! 
Let  whirlwinds  gather  at  his  back, 
And  drive  him  on  his  dastard  track ! 
Let  thy  red  bolts  behind  him  burn, 
And  blast  him  should  he  dare  to  turn!" 


SARA     J.     CLARKE.  495 


VOICES     FROM     THE     OLD     WORLD. 

A  VOICE  from  out  the  Highlands, 

Old  Scotia's  mountain  homes, 
From  wild  burn-side  and  darksome  glen, 

And  towering  steep  it  comes ! 
Is  it  the  shout  of  huntsmen  bold, 

Who  chase  the  antler'd  stag, 
Who  sound  the  horn,  and  cheer  the  hounds, 

And  leap  from  crag  to  crag  ? 
Is  it  the  call  of  rising  clans, 

The  cry  of  gathering  men  ? 
Pours  freedom's  rocky  fortress  forth 

Its  Gaelic  hordes  again  ? 
Throng  round  the  Scottish  chieftains 

Such  hosts  as  long  ago 
In  mountain  storms  of  valour 

Swept  down  upon  the  foe  ? 
When  hoarse  and  deep  like  thunder 

Their  shouts  of  vengeful  wrath, 
And  the  lightning  of  drawn  claymores 

Flash'd  out  upon  their  path  ? 

Far  other  are  the  fearful  sounds 

Borne  o'er  the  wintry  wave, 
The  cry  of  mortal  agony, 

The  death-groans  of  the  brave ! 
For  once  a  foe  invincible 

The  kilted  Gael  hath  found; 
At  length  one  field  beholds  him  yield  — 

Starvation's  battle-ground ! 
Thus,  thus  came  forth  the  mountaineers, 

Pale,  gaunt,  and  ghostly  bands, 
Who  westward  turn  their  frenzied  eyes, 

And  stretch  their  shrivell'd  hands  ; 


496  SARA     J.     CLARKE. 

And  like  the  shriek  of  madness,  comes 
Their  wild  beseeching  cry  — 

"  Bread,  hread !  we  faint,  we  waste,  we  starve, 
Bread,  bread !  oh,  God,  we  die !" 

And  shall  they  perish  thus,  whose  sires, 

Stout  warrior-men  and  stern, 
With  Wallace  battled  side  by  side, 

And  bled  at  Bannockburn  ? 
Where  freedom's  new  world  realms  expand, 

Where  western  sunsets  glow, 
A  nation  with  one  mighty  voice 

Gives  back  the  answer,  —  "No!" 
'Tis  ours,  'tis  ours,  the  godlike  power 

To  bid  doomed  thousands  live; 
Then  let  us  on  the  water  cast 

The  bread  of  our  reprieve ; 
Give,  give!  when  Scotia's  proud  sons  beg. 

Oh,  heaven,  who  would  not  give  ! 

And  forms  of  womanhood  are  there, 

The  matron  and  the  maid, 
Strange,  haggard,  famine-wasted  shapes, 

In  tatter'd  garbs  array'd, 
And  these  are  they  whose  beauties  rare 

Are  famed  in  song  and  story, 
And  these  are  they  whose  mothers'  names 

Are  link'd  with  Scotland's  glory ! 
Ah,  they  too  gaze  with  dim  sad  eyes 

Out  o'er  the  western  main, 
While  there  are  beating  woman  hearts 

They  shall  not  gaze  in  vain, 
We  rest  not  till  we  minister 

To  their  despairing  need. 
Give,  give !  oh,  heaven,  who  would  not  give 

When  Scotia's  daughters  plead  ? 


SARA     J.     CLARKE.  497 

A  voice  from  Erin's  storied  isle 

Comes  sweeping  o'er  the  main ; 
Ha!  calls  she  on  her  sons  to  strike 

For  freedom  once  again? 
Or  rises  from  her  heart  of  fire 

The  pealing  voice  of  song, 
Or  rolls  the  tide  of  eloquence 

The  burden'd  air  along? 
Or  ringeth  out  some  lay  of  love 

By  blue-eyed  maidens  sung, 
Or  sweeter,  dearer  music  yet, 

The  laughter  of  the  young? 

Far  other  is  that  fearful  voice, 

A  sound  of  woe  and  dread, 
'T  is  Erin  mourning  for  her  sons, 

The  dying  and  the  dead ! 
They  perish  in  the  open  fields, 

They  fall  beside  the  way, 
Or  lie  within  their  hovel-homes, 

Their  bed,  the  damp  cold  clay, 
And  watch  the  sluggish  tide  of  life 

Ebb  slowly  day  by  day ! 
They  sink  as  sinks  the  mariner 

When  wreck'd  upon  the  wave, 
"  Unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown," 

No  winding-sheet,  no  grave ! 

To  us  her  cry;  be  our  reply 

Bread-laden  argosies ; 
Let  love's  divine  armada  meet 

Her  fearful  enemies ; 
Give,  give,  and  feel  the  smile  of  God 

Upon  thy  spirit  lie; 
Draw  back,  and  let  thy  poor  soul  hear 

Its  angel's  parting  sigh. 
42*  2G 


498  SARA     J.     CLARKE. 

Give,  give !  oh,  heaven,  who  would  not  give, 
When  Erin's  brave  sons  die  ? 

Oh !  sisters,  there  are  famishing, 

The  old  with  silver  hair; 
And  dead  unburied  babes  are  left 

To  waste  upon  the  air! 
And  mothers  wan  and  fever-worn, 

Beside  their  hearths  are  sinking, 
And  maiden  forms,  while  yet  in  life, 

To  skeletons  are  shrinking! 

Ho !  freight  the  good  ship  to  the  wale, 

Pile  high  the  golden  grain! 
A  nation's  life-boat  spreads  her  sail, 

God  speed  her  o'er  the  main! 
His  peace  shall  calm  the  stormy  skies, 

And  rest  upon  the  waters; 
Give,  give  !  oh  heaven,  who  would  not  give, 

When  perish  Erin's  daughters ! 


A     MO  RNIN  G     RIDE. 

WHEN  troubled  in  spirit,  when  weary  of  life, 

When   I  faint  'neath  its  burdens,  and  shrink  from  its  strife,- 

When  its  fruits  turn'd  to  ashes  are  mocking  my  taste, 

And  its  fairest  scene  seems  but  a  desolate  waste; 

Then  come  ye  not  near  me  my  sad  heart  to  cheer 

With  friendship's  soft  accents,  or  sympathy's  tear; 

No  counsel  I  ask,  and  no  pity  I  need, 

But  bring  me,  oh,  bring  me,  my  gallant  young  steed! 

With  his  high  arch'd  neck  and  his  nostril  spread  wide, 

His  eye  full  of  fire,  and  his  step  full  of  pride ! 

As  I  spring  to  his  back,  as  I  seize  the  strong  rein, 

The  strength  of  my  spirit  returneth  again! 


j 


SARA     J.     CLARKE.  499 

The  bonds  are  all  broken  which  fetter'd  my  mind. 
And  my  cares  borne  away  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 
My  pride  lifts  its  head,  for  a  season  bow'd  down, 
And  the  queen  in  my  nature  now  puts  on  her  crown. 

Now  we're  off!  like  the  winds,  to  the  plains  whence  they  came, 

And  the  rapture  of  motion  is  thrilling  my  frame. 

On,  on  speeds  my  courser,  scarce  printing  the  sod, 

Scarce  crushing  a  daisy  to  mark  where  he  trod. 

On,  on,  like  a  deer,  when  the  hounds'  early  bay 

Awakes  the  wild  echoes,  away  and  away ! 

Still  faster,  still  farther  he  leaps  at  my  cheer, 

'Till  the  rush  of  the  startled  air  whirrs  in  my  ear ! 

Now  'long  a  clear  rivulet  lieth  my  track, 

See  his  glancing  hoof  tossing  the  white  pebbles  back; 

Now  a  glen  dark  as  midnight  —  what  matter — we'll  down, 

Though  shadows  are  round  us,  and  rocks  o'er  us  frown,-— 

The  thick  branches  shake,  as  we're  hurrying  through, 

And  deck  us  with  spangles  of  silvery  dew ! 

What  a  wild  thought  of  triumph,  that  this  girlish  hand 

Such  a  steed  in  the  might  of  his  strength  may  command ! 

What  a  glorious  creature !     Ah,  glance  at  him  now, 

As  I  check  him  awhile  on  this  green  hillock's  brow, 

How  he  tosses  his  mane,  with  a  shrill,  joyous  neigh, 

And  paws  the  firm  earth  in  his  proud,  stately  play! 

Hurrah,  off  again,  dashing  on,  as  in  ire, 

Till  the  long  flinty  pathway  is  flashing  with  fire! 

Ho,  a  ditch! — shall  we  pause?     No,  the  bold  leap  we  dare, 

Like  a  swift- winged  arrow  we  rush  through  the  air. 

Oh !  not  all  the  pleasures  that  poets  may  praise, 

Not  the  'wildering  waltz  in  the  ball-room's  blaze, 

Nor  the  chivalrous  joust,  nor  the  daring  race, — 

Nor  the  swift  regatta,  nor  merry  chase, — 

Nor  the  sail  high  heaving  waters  o'er, — 

Nor  the  rural  dance  on  the  moonlight  shore, 

Can  the  wild  and  fearless  joy  exceed, 

Of  a  fearless  leap  on  a  fiery  steed. 


ALICE  B.  NEAL. 


THIS  young  poetess,  so  richly  endowed  by  nature  with  genius  and 
grace,  is  a  native  of  Hudson,  New  York.  Her  father's  name  was 
Bradley;  her  own  baptismal  name— Emily.  She  passed  her  childhood 
chiefly  at  Hudson,  and  at  fourteen,  went  to  a  large  boarding-school 
at  New  Hampton,  New  Hampshire,  where,  in  addition  to  the  usual 
branches  of  a  young  lady's  education,  she  was  taught  Latin  and  Mathe 
matics.  For  these,  however,  she  felt  no  love ;  poetry  being  dearer  than 
problems,  and  her  own  living  imagination  more  companionable  than  the 
dead  languages.  While  at  school  her  first  poems  and  tales  were  pub 
lished,  principally  in  Neal's  Gazette,  a  periodical  which  had  just  been 
commenced  in  Philadelphia.  Its  editor,  the  late  Mr.  Joseph  C.  Neal, 
a  gentleman  of  great  wit  and  varied  talent,  well  known  as  the  author 
of  the  inimitable  "  Charcoal  Sketches,"  began  a  correspondence  with  his 
young  contributor  soon  after  she  left  school.  Her  musical  pseudonyme, 
Alice  Lee,  he  mistook  for  her  real  name;  and  subsequently  —  when  a 
year's  epistolary  intercourse  ended  in  close  friendship,  and  that  in  a 
closer  union,  —  he  persuaded  her  to  adopt  the  first  part  of  it  altogether. 
He  lived  but  six  months  after  his  marriage ;  and  more  than  half  that 
short  period  was  clouded  by  the  melancholy  illness  which  terminated 
his  life.  During  his  indisposition,  Mrs.  Neal  assisted  him  in  his  editorial 
duties ;  and  now,  in  connection  with  Mr.  C.  J.  Peterson,  she  continues 
the  supervision  of  the  paper,  which  still  bears  its  original  name.  Be 
sides  this,  she  is  a  constant  contributor  to  the  various  magazines  and 
annuals  of  the  day. 

Her  poems  possess  great  fervour  of  feeling,  a  clearness  and  depth  of 
thought,  and  a  delightful  freedom  of  expression.  The  second  of  our 
selections  was  written  before  she  was  fifteen  ;  the  editor  of  the  periodical 
in  which  it  first  appeared  observed  truly,  that  "the  union  of  poetic 
sentiment  and  practical  wisdom  it  displays  forms  the  rarest  com- 

(500) 


ALICE     B.     NEAL.  501 

bination,  especially  in  those  who  have  yet  to  undergo  the  hard  ex 
periences  of  life."  The  following  poem,  so  touching  in  its  simple 
eloquence,  was  not  the  creation  of  fancy  only,  but  of  memory  also,  for 
when  a  child  Mrs.  Neal  suffered  for  several  months  the  anguish  of  total 
blindness. 


BLIND! 


The  hand  of  the  operator  wavered  —  the  instrument  glanced  aside — in  a 
moment  she  was  blind  for  life.  —  MS. 

BLIND,  said  you  ?     Blind  for  life ! 
'T  is  but  a  jest  —  no,  no,  it  cannot  be 
That  I  no  more  the  blessed  light  may  see! 

Oh,  what  a  fearful  strife 
Of  horrid  thought  is  raging  in  my  mind! 
I  did  not  hear  aright  — "  for  ever  blind !" 

Mother,  you  would  not  speak 
Aught  but  the  truth  to  me,  your  stricken  child', 
Tell  me  I  do  but  dream ;  my  brain  is  wild, 

And  yet  my  heart  is  weak. 
Oh,  mother,  fold  me  in  a  close  embrace, 
Bend  down  to  me  that  dear,  that  gentle  face. 

I  cannot  hear  your  voice ! 
Speak  louder,  mother.     Speak  to  me,  and  say 
This  frightful  dream  will  quickly  pass  away. 

Have  I  no  hope,  no  choice  ? 

Oh,  Heaven,  with  light,  has  sound,  too,  from  me  fled ! 
Call,  shout  aloud,  as  if  to  wake  the  dead. 

Thank  God !  I  hear  you  now. 
I  hear  the  beating  of  your  troubled  heart, 
With  every  woe  of  mine  it  has  a  part; 

Upon  my  upturned  brow 


502  ALICE     B.     NEAL. 

The  hot  tears  fall,  from  those  dear  eyes,  for  me. 
Once  more,  oh  is  it  true  I  may  not  see  ? 

This  silence  chills  my  blood. 
Had  you  one  word  of  comfort,  all  my  fears 
Were  quickly  banish'd —  faster  still  the  tears, 

A  bitter,  burning  flood, 

Fall  on  my  face,  and  now  one  trembling  word 
Confirms  the  dreadful  truth  my  ears  have  heard. 

Why  weep  you  ?     I  am  calm. 
My  wan  lip  quivers  not,  my  heart  is  still. 
My  swollen  temples  —  see,  they  do  not  thrill! 

That  word  was  as  a  charm. 
Tell  me  the  worst,  all,  all  I  now  can  bear. 
I  have  a  fearful  strength  —  that  of  despair. 

What  is  it  to  be  blind? 
To  be  shut  out  for  ever  from  the  skies  — 
To  see  no  more  the  "  light  of  loving  eyes"  — 

And,  as  years  pass,  to  find 
My  lot  unvaried  by  one  passing  gleam 
Of  the  bright  woodland,  or  the  flashing  stream! 

To  feel  the  breath  of  Spring, 
Yet  not  to  view  one  of  the  tiny  flowers 
That  come  from  out  the  earth  with  her  soft  showers; 

To  hear  the  bright  birds  sing, 
And  feel,  while  listening  to  their  joyous  strain, 
My  heart  can  ne'er  know  happiness  again! 

Then  in  the  solemn  night 
To  lie  alone,  while  all  anear  me  sleep, 
And  fancy  fearful  forms  about  me  creep. 

Starting  in  wild  affright, 

To  know,  if  true,  I  could  not  have  the  power 
To  ward  off  danger  in  that  lonely  hour. 


A  L  I  C  E     B  .     N  E  A  L  .  503 

And  as  my  breath  came  thick 
To  feel  the  hideous  darkness  round  me  press, 
Adding  new  terror  to  my  loneliness ; 

While  every  pulse  leapt  quick 
To  clutch  and  grasp  at  the  black,  stifling  air, 
Then  sink  in  stupor  from  my  wild  despair. 

It  comes  upon  me  now ! 

T  cannot  breathe,  my  heart  grows  quick  and  chill, 
Oh,  mother,  are  your  arms  about  me  still  — 

Still  o'er  me  do  you  bow  ? 
And  yet  I  care  not,  better  all  alone, 
No  one  to  heed  my  weakness  should  I  moan. 

Ao-ain !  I  will  not  live. 

t5 

Death  is  no  worse  than  this  eternal  night  — 
Those  resting  in  the  grave  heed  not  the  light ! 

Small  comfort  can  ye  give. 
Yes,  Death  is  welcome  as  my  only  friend, 
In  the  calm  grave  my  sorrows  will  have  end. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  hope ! 
Have  you  not  told  me  it  is  all  in  vain  — 
That  while  I  live  I  may  not  see  again? 

That  earth,  and  the  broad  scope 
Of  the  blue  heaven  —  that  all  things  glad  and  free 
Henceforth  are  hidden  —  tell  of  hope  to  me? 

It  is  not  hard  to  lie 
Calmly  and  silently  in  that  long  sleep; 
No  fear  can  wake  me  from  that  slumber  deep. 

So,  mother  —  let  me  die; 
I  shall  be  happier  in  the  gentle  rest 
Than  living  with  this  grief  to  fill  my  breast. 


504  ALICE     B.     NEAL. 


PART    II  . 

God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb. —  Sterne. 

Thank  God,  that  yet  I  live. 
In  tender  mercy,  heeding  not  the  prayer 
I  boldly  uttered,  in  my  first  despair, 

He  would  not  rashly  give 
The  punishment  an  erring  spirit  braved. 
From  sudden  death,  in  kindness,  I  was  saved. 

It  was  a  fearful  thought 

That  this  fair  earth  had  not  one  pleasure  left. 
I  was  at  once  of  sight  and  hope  bereft. 

My  soul  was  not  yet  taught 
To  bow  submissive  to  the  sudden  stroke; 
Its  crushing  weight  my  heart  had  well-nigh  broke. 

Words  are  not  that  can  tell 

The  horrid  thought  that  burned  upon  my  brain  — 
That  came  and  went  with  madness  still  the  same  — 

A  black  and  icy  spell 

That  froze  my  life-blood,  stopped  my  fluttering  breath, 
Was  laid  upon  me  —  even  "  life  in  death." 

Long  weary  months  crept  by, 
And  I  refused  all  comfort,  turned  aside 
Wishing  that  in  my  weakness  I  had  died. 

I  uttered  no  reply, 

But  without  ceasing  wept,  and  moaned,  and  prayed 
The  hand  of  death  no  longer  might  be  stay'd. 

I  shunned  the  gaze  of  all. 
I  knew  that  pity  dwelt  in  every  look. 
Pity  e'en  then  my  proud  heart  could  not  brook, 

Though  darkness  as  a  pall 
Circled  me  round,  each  mournful  eye  I  felt 
That  for  a  moment  on  my  features  dwelt. 


ALICE     B.     NEAL.  505 

You,  dearest  mother,  know 
I  shrank  in  sullenness  from  your  caress. 
Even  your  kisses  added  to  distress, 

For  burning  tears  would  flow 
As  you  bent  o'er  me,  whispering  "be  calm, 
He  who  hath  wounded  holds  for  thee  a  balm." 

He  did  not  seem  a  friend. 
I  deem'd  in  wrath  the  sudden  blow  was  sent 
From  a  strong  arm  that  never  might  relent. 

That  pain  alone  would  end 
With  life,  for,  mother,  then  it  seem'd  to  me 
That  long,  and  dreamless,  would  death's  slumber  be. 

That  blessed  illness  came. 

My  weaken'd  pulse  now  bounded  wild  and  strong, 
While  soon  a  raging  fever  burn'd  along 

My  worn,  exhausted  frame. 
And  for  the  time  all  knowledge  pass'd  away, 
It  matter'd  not  that  hidden  was  the  day. 

The  odour  of  sweet  flowers 

Came  stealing  through  the  casement  when  I  woke; 
When  the  wild  fever  spell  at  last  was  broke. 

And  yet  for  many  hours 
I  laid  in  dreamy  stillness,  till  your  tone 
Call'd  back  the  life  that  seem'd  for  ever  flown. 

You,  mother,  knelt  in  prayer. 
While  one  dear  hand  was  resting  on  my  head, 
With  sobbing  voice,  how  fervently  you  plead 

For  a  strong  heart,  to  bear 

The  parting  which  you  feared  —  "Or,  if  she  live, 
Comfort,  oh,  Father!  to  the  stricken  give. 

"Take  from  her  wandering  mind 
The  heavy  load  which  it  so  long  hath  borne, 
Which  even  unto  death  her  frame  hath  worn. 

43 


506  ALICE     B.     NEAL. 

Let  her  in  mercy  'find 

That  though  the  Earth  she  may  no  longer  see, 
Her  spirit  still  can  look  to  Heaven  and   Thee." 

A  low  sob  from  me  stole. 

A  moment  more  —  your  arms  about  me  wound  — 
My  head  upon  your  breast  a  pillow  found. 

And  through  my  weary  soul 
A  holy  calm  came  stealing  from  on  high. 
Your  prayer  was  answer'd —  I  was  not  to  die. 

Then  when  the  bell's  faint  chime 
Came  floating  gently  on  the  burden'd  air, 
My  heart  went  up  to  God  in  fervent  prayer. 

And,  mother,  from  that  time 

My  wild  thoughts  left  me— hope  returned  once  more — 
I  felt  that  happiness  was  yet  in  store. 

Daily  new  strength  was  given. 
For  the  first  time  since  darkness  on  me  fell, 
I  pass'd  with  more  of  joy  than  words  can  tell 

Under  the  free  blue  Heaven. 
I  bathed  my  brow  in  the  cool  gushing  spring  — 
How  much  of  life  those  bright  drops  seem'd  to  bring. 

I  crush'd  the  dewy  leaves 
Of  the  pale  violets,  and  drank  their  breath  — 
Though  I  had  heard  that  at  each  floweret's  death 

A  sister  blossom  grieves. 
I  did  not  care  to  see  their  glorious  hues, 
Fearing  the  richer  perfume  I  might  lose. 

Then  in  the  dim  old  wood 
I  laid  me  down  beneath  a  bending  tree, 
And  dream'd,  dear  mother,  waking  dreams  of  thee. 

I  thought  how  just  and  gqod 
The  power  that  had  so  gently  seal'd  mine  eyes, 
Yet  bade  new  pleasures  and  new  hopes  arise. 


ALICE     B.     NEAL.  507 

For  now  in  truth  I  find 
MY  FATHER  all  his  promises  hath  kept; 
He  comforts  those  who  here  in  sadness  wept. 

"Eyes  to  the  blind" 

Thou  art,  oh,  God!     Earth  I  no  longer  see, 
Yet  trustfully  my  spirit  looks  to  thee. 


THERE'S   NO    SUCH   WORD   AS    FAIL 

THE  proudest  motto  for  the  young! 

Write  it  in  lines  of  gold 
Upon  thy  heart,  and  in  thy  mind 

The  stirring  words  enfold. 
And  in  misfortune's  dreary  hour, 

Or  fortune's  prosperous  gale, 
'Twill  have  a  holy,  cheering  power, 

"There's  no  such  word  as  fail." 

The  sailor,  on  the  stormy  sea, 

May  sigh  for  distant  land, 
And,  free  and  fearless  though  he  be, 

Wish  they  were  near  the  strand. 
But  when  the  storm  on  angry  wings 

Bears  lightning,  sleet,  and  hail, 
He  climbs  the  slippery  mast,  and  sings 

"There's  no  such  word  as  fail." 

The  wearied  student  bending  o'er 

The  tomes  of  other  days, 
And  dwelling  on  their  magic  lore, 

For  inspiration  prays. 
And  though  with  toil  his  brain  is  weak, 

His  brow  is  deadly  pale, 
The  language  of  his  heart  will  speak, 

"  There 's  no  such  word  as  fail." 


I 

L 


508  ALICE     B.     NEAL. 

The  wily  statesman  bends  his  knee 

Before  fame's  glittering  shrine, 
And  would  an  humble  suppliant  be 

To  Genius  so  divine. 
Yet  though  his  progress  is  full  slow, 

And  enemies  may  rail, 
He  thinks  at  last  the  world  to  show 

"There's  no  such  word  as  fail." 

The  soldier  on  the  battle-plain, 

When  thirsting  to  be  free, 
And  throw  aside  a  tyrant's  chain, 

Says  "  on  for  liberty !" 
Our  households,  and  our  native  land! 

We  must,  we  will,  prevail  ! 
Then  foot  to  foot  and  hand  to  hand, 

"  There 's  no  such  word  as  fail !" 

The  child  of  God,  though  oft  beset 

By  foes  without  —  within, 
These  precious  words  will  ne'er  forget 

Amid  their  dreadful  din ; 
But  upward  looks  with  eye  of  faith, 

Arm'd  with  the  Christian  mail; 
And  in  the  hottest  conflict  saith 

"  There  's  no  such  word  as  fail." 


DO     NOT     BLAME     ME. 

I  'VE  been  thinking  of  my  faults,  till  my  heart  is  like  to  break, 
How  very  many  are  the  foes,  how  few  the  friends  I  make, 
And  still  within  my  hidden  heart  sincere  affection  lies, 
The  priceless  gift  of  human  love,  I  well  know  how  to  prize. 

Yet  often  those  I  love  the  most,  have  not  one  thought  for  me, 
When  looking  up  for  kindly  smiles,  indifference  I  see ; 


ALICE     B.     NEAL.  509 

And  then  the  pleasant  words  that  rose  upon  my  lips  have  died, 
Leaving  me  mournfully  to  crush,  my  sorrow  and  my  pride. 

I  strive  that  I  may  not  offend,  I  check  each  careless  word, 
I  seek  to  hide  from  other  ears  dark  tales  my  own  have  heard, 
I  would  not,  even  by  a  thought,  add  to  another's  grief, 
Yet  often  I  have  given  pain,  where  1  would  bring  relief. 

And  sometimes,  when  my  changeful  mood  brings  feelings  wild 

and  gay, 

When  in  my  eagerness  I  cease  to  guard  whate'er  I  say, 
A  word  which  in  itself  was  naught,  is  made  to  seem  unkind, 
Bright  thoughts  for  evil  ones  are  changed,  and  tears  for  smiles 

I  find. 

I  am  lonely,  very  lonely,  my  heart  is  throbbing  fast, 

And  tears  are  gathering  in  my  eyes  for  follies  that  are  past; 

Yet  know  I  that  by  suffering  the  spirit  is  made  pure, 

So  I  would  calmly  bear  the    pain  God  wills  I  should  endure. 

MIDNIGHT,    AND     DAYBREAK. 
I.  —  MIDNIO  HT. 

I  HAD  been  tossing  through  the  restless  night  — 
Sleep  banish'd  from  my  pillow  —  and  my  brain 
Weary  with  sense  of  dull  and  stifling  pain  — 

Yearning,  and  praying  for  the  blessed  light. 

My  lips  moan'd  thy  dear  name,  beloved  one ; 
Yet  I  had  seen  thee  lying  still  and  cold, 
Thy  form  bound  only  by  the  shroud's  pure  fold, 

For  life  with  all  its  suffering  was  done. 

Then  agony  of  loneliness  o'ercame 

My  widow'd  heart — night  would  fit  emblem  seem 
For  the  evanishing  of  that  bright  dream : 

The  heavens  were  dark — my  life  henceforth  the  same. 
No  hope — its  pulse  within  my  breast  was  dead. 
No  light — the  clouds  hung  heavily  o'erhead. 
43* 


510  ALICE     B.     NEAL. 


II.  —  DAYBREAK. 


Once  more  I  sought  the  casement.     Lo !  a  ray, 
Faint  and  uncertain,  struggled  through  the  gloom. 
And  shed  a  misty  twilight  on  the  room ; 

Long  watch'd-for  herald  of  the  coming  day! 

It  brought  a  thrill  of  gladness  to  my  breast. 

With  clasped  hands,  and  streaming  eyes,  I  pray'd, 
Thanking  my  God  for  light  though  long  delay'd — 

And  gentle  calm  stole  o'er  my  wild  unrest. 

"  Oh,  soul !"  I  said,  "  thy  boding  murmurs  cease ; 
Though  sorrow  bind  thee  as  a  funeral  pall, 
Thy  Father's  hand  is  guiding  thee  through  all — 

His  love  will  bring  a  true  and  perfect  peace. 

Look  upward  once  again,  though  drear  the  night; 
Earth  may  be  darkness — Heaven  will  give  thee  light." 

THE     CHURCH. 

"I  will  show  thee  the  bride,  the  Lamb's  wife."  —  Rev.  xxi.  9. 

CLAD  in  a  robe  of  pure  and  spotless  white, 

The  youthful  bride  with  timid  step  comes  forth 
To  greet  the  hand  to  which  she  plights  her  troth, 

Her  soft  eyes  radiant  with  a  strange  delight. 

The  snowy  veil  which  circles  her  around 

Shades  the  sweet  face  from  every  gazer's  eye, 
And  thus  enwrapt,  she  passes  calmly  by — 

Nor  casts  a  look  but  on  the  unconscious  ground. 

So  should  the  Church,  the  bride  elect  of  Heaven, — 
Remembering  Whom  she  goeth  forth  to  meet, 
And  with  a  truth  that  cannot  brook  deceit 

Holding  the  faith,  which  unto  her  is  given — 

Pass  through  this  world,  which  claims  her  for  a  while, 
Nor  cast  about  her  longing  look,  nor  smile. 


E.  JUSTINE  BAYARD. 

THIS  graceful  and  accomplished  young  lady  is  a  daughter  of  Robert 
Bayard,  Esq.,  of  Glenwood,  near  Fishkill,  N.  Y.  Her  poems  have 
appeared  now  and  then  in  The  Literary  World,  and  in  The  Knicker 
bocker,  signed  by  her  initials;  but  it  is  only  within  a  very  short  time 
that  she  has  allowed  the  public  to  share  in  the  profusion  of  her  treasures. 
They  are  marked  by  an  earnest  thoughtful  ness,  and  a  strong  and  vivid 
imagination. 


A  FUNERAL  CHANT  FOR  THE  OLD  YEAR, 

>Tis  the  death-night  of  the  solemn  Old  Year! 
And  it  calleth  from  its  shroud 
With  a  hollow  voice  and  loud, 

But  serene : 

And  it  saith  — "  What  have  I  given 
That  hath  brought  thee  nearer  heaven  ? 
Dost  thou  weep,  as  one  forsaken, 
For  the  treasures  I  have  taken  ? 
Standest  thou  beside  my  hearse 
With  a  blessing  or  a  curse  ? 
Is  it  well  with  thee,  or  worse 
That  I  have  been?" 

'T  is  the  death-night  of  the  solemn  Old  Year ! 
The  midnight  shades  that  fall, — 
They  will  serve  it  for  a  pall, 

In  their  gloom  ;  — 
And  the  misty  vapours  crowding 
Are  the  withered  corse  enshrouding; 
And  the  black  clouds  looming  off  in 
The  far  sky,  have  plumed  the  coffin, 

(511) 


512  E.     JUSTINE     BAYARD. 

But  the  vaults  of  human  souls, 
Where  the  memory  unrolls 
All  her  tear-besprinkled  scrolls, 
Are  its  tomb ! 

T  is  the  death-night  of  the  solemn  Old  Year ! 
The  moon  hath  gone  to  weep 
With  a  mourning  still  and  deep 

For  her  loss  :  — 
The  stars  dare  not  assemble 
Through  the  murky  night  to  tremble  — 
The  naked  trees  are  groaning 
With  an  awful,  mystic  moaning  — 
Wings  sweep  upon  the  air, 
Which  a  solemn  message  bear, 
And  hosts,  whose  banners  wear 
A  crowned  cross ! 

'T  is  the  death-night  of  the  solemn  Old  Year ! 
Who  make  the  funeral  train 
When  the  queen  hath  ceased  to  reign  ? 

Who  are  here 

With  the  golden  crowns  that  follow 
All  invested  with  a  halo? 
With  a  splendour  transitory 
Shines  the  midnight  from  their  glory, 
And  the  paean  of  their  song 
Rolls  the  aisles  of  space  along, 
But  the  left  hearts  are  less  strong, 
For  they  were  dear! 

'T  is  the  death-night  of  the  solemn  Old  Year ! 
With  a  dull  and  heavy  tread 
Tramping  forward  with  the  dead 
Who  come  last? 


E.     JUSTINE     BAYARD.  513 

Ling'ring  with  their  faces  ground  ward, 
Though  their  feet  are  marching  onward, 
They  are  shrieking,  —  they  are  calling 
On  the  rocks  in  tones  appalling, 

But  Earth  waves  them  from  her  view, — 
And  the  God-light  dazzles  through, 
And  they  shiver,  as  spars  do, 
Before  the  blast! 

'T  is  the  death-night  of  the  solemn  Old  Year ! 
We  are  parted  from  our  place 
In  her  motherly  embrace, 

And  are  lone ! 

For  the  infant  and  the  stranger 
It  is  sorrowful  to  change  her  — 
She  hath  cheered  the  night  of  mourning 
With  a  promise  of  the  dawning; 
She  hath  shared  in  our  delio-ht 

O 

With  a  gladness  true  and  bright : 
Oh!  we  need  her  joy  to-night  — 
But  she  is  gone! 

MUSIC     OF     NATURE. 

f  am  here  lonely!     There  was  once  a  time 

I  could  divine  no  sorrow  in  that  word ; 
I  carried  in  my  heart  a  sweeter  chime 

Than  in  the  voice  of  other  men  is  heard; 
And  Nature  spake  to  me  in  sun  and  shade, 
And  my  own  thought  a  pleasant  music  made. 

The  air  was  instinct  with  a  lovely  spell, 

The  winds  awoke  in  mystic  harmonies, 
And  moonlit  waves  at  summer  eve  could  tell 

Strange  tales  to  me,  as  playfully  the  breeze 
Swept  o'er  their  crests,  no  longer  still  or  mute, 
Like  fairy  fingers  over  harp  or  lute. 


514  E.     JUSTINE     BAYARD. 

There  was  a  soul  in  trees,  which  to  my  ear 
Came  often  when  their  leaves  of  gossamer 

Swayed  with  the  soft  south  wind;  I  seem'd  to  hear 
Elves  all  invisible,  with  singing  stir 

The  quiet  atmosphere  of  summer  noon, 

A  low,  and  lingering,  and  loving  tune. 

The  mountains  had  another  tone.     Their's  was 

No  melody  of  voice  or  instrument, 
But  verse  unrhymed,  sublime  and  stately  as 

His  words  inspired,  who  saw  the  firmament 
With  eyes  to  earth-scenes  wrapt  in  dark  eclipse, 
Or  the  Italian's  rapt  apocalypse. 

And  heaven's  deep  azure,  over-arching  all, 
Spake  to  my  spirit  as  an  old  church  bell 

Heard  from  afar,  with  hymnings  musical 

Drawn  from  the  organ's  full  melodious  swell, 

Angelic  music  with  high  bliss  elate, 

To  Nature's  great  Designer  consecrate. 

The  soul  of  Nature  is  in  Nature  still ; 

But  there  has  gone  from  me  I  know  not  what 
Of  power  to  catch  her  whispers,  as  they  fill 

With  untaught  poesy  each  lovely  spot, 
Therefore  her  beauty  most  awakes  my  heart 
To  mourn  the  absence  of  her  votary's  art. 

Like  those  sad  exiles  from  the  realm  of  sound, 
Those  mute  and  lone  ones,  unto  whom  the  hum 

Of  life  comes  not,  in  their  deep  silence  bound 
Nature  to  me  is  beautiful  but  dumb ; 

And  wrapt  for  ever  in  a  speechless  gloom, 

What  is  e'en  beauty  but  a  living  tomb  ? 


E.     JUSTINE     BAYARD.  515 

Ah  no !  bright  goddess,  no.     I  will  not  stain 

The  lips  which  have  been  thine  with  words  like  these ; 

There  are  whose  sense  still  notes  the  exalted  strain, 
Though  mine  be  deadened  to  thy  minstrelsies. 

Sing  on  for  them  sweet    harmonist  divine, 

Thine  is  perennial  strength,  mute  weakness  mine. 

SONNE  T. 

SPRUNG  from  the  arid  rock  devoid  of  soil, 
In  vig'rous  life  I  saw  one  blade  of  wheat, 
Bearing  its  precious  grain,  full-lobed  and  sweet, 

Remote  from  eye  of  him  whose  lusty  toil 

In  other  harvest  recompense  hath  found ; 

And  it  seemed  good  to  me  that  labour  should 

Beyond  its  aim  or  asking  thus  abound, 
While  reaping  to  itself  its  purchased  food  : 

So,  too,  from  him,  who  the  prolific  thought 
Sows  in  the  cultured  field  of  intellect, 
A  wandering  breath  its  course  may  intersect, 

And  bear  an  embryo  with  rich  promise  fraught 

Within  some  barren  soul  to  germinate, 

And  fill  with  fruitful  life  what  else  were  desolate. 


S  ON  O. 

WE  parted  at  noontide,  I  met  her  at  night, 
(How  the  inner  world  mocks  at  the  outer !) 

'T  was  day  in  her  presence,  that  spirit  of  light, 
'T  will  be  more  than  midnight  without  her. 

We  met  amid  tears,  amid  laughter  to  part, 
(How  the  inner  world  mocks  at  the  outer!) 

Those  tears  were  Hope's  baptism  sweet  to  my  heart, 
That  mirth  but  betrayed  me  to  doubt  her. 


516  E.     JUSTINE     B4.YARD. 

In  summer  we  parted,  in  winter  we  met, 
(How  the  inner  world  mocks  at  the  outer!) 

Decemher  was  lit  by  those  star-eyes  of  jet, 
July  bound  the  death-shroud  about  her. 

ERROR. 

I  SAW  a  light  cloud  floating  in  the  sheen 

Of  the  resplendent  moonshine;  undefined 

Its  fleecy  edges  shivered  in  the  wind 
Alone,  at  first  it  moved  in  distance  seen, 
But  as  it  neared  on  the  broad  disk  serene 

Of  the  full  moon,  it  grew  a  settled  form  ; 

And  in  its  train  appeared  a  shadowy  swarm, 
Attendant  vapours,  hov'ring  links,  between 
This  pale  forerunner,  and  huge  shrouds  of  gloom, 
Which,  lowering  o'er  the  hills,  portentous  prophets  loom. 

Thus,  on  its  inner  heaven,  the  soul  descries 

Shapes  of  significance,  indefinite, 

Dimming  its  native  clarity,  yet  bright 
And  cozening  in  beauty.     Lone  they  rise, 
In  seeming  harmless ;  but  to  virtue's  eyes 

When  brought  to  Truth's  illumined  disk  anear, 

They  show  as  darkness  —  harbingers  appear 
Of  gloomy  ranks,  whose  dim  perspective  dies 
In  earthly  mists  born  of  corruption's  slime, 
Leading  through  paths  obscure,  from  Error  down  to  Crime. 

STANZAS. 

(ON    FINDING    THE    KEY    OF    AN    OLD     PIANO.) 

UNLOCK,  unlock  the  shrines  of  memory, 
And  bid  her  many  keys  their  voices  send 

Up  in  the  silent  hour  unto  me. 

Speak !  that  the  tones  of  other  years  may  lend 

Their  vanished  harmonies  and  lost  romance 

To  days  immersed  in  gloom  and  dissonance. 


E.     JUSTINE     BAYARD.  517 

Thou  who  the  while  unconscious  played  thy  part, 
And  called  fair  music  from  her  silent  cell 

To  echo  murmurs  from  the  gushing  heart, 
Come !  wake  once  more  the  departed  spell, 

I  fain  would  hear  of  tilings  and  thoughts  again, 

Which  mingled  often  with  the  stealing  strain. 

Hark!  it  comes  creeping  on.     It  is  an  air 

Full  of  strange  wailing  —  mournfully  profound; 

Some  music-spirit  moaning  in  despair, 
Prisoned  in  that  sweet  barrier  of  sound : 

And  yet,  methinks  "might  I  a  captive  be 
If  thus  environed  in  captivity!" 

And  shadowy  forms  around  the  instrument 
Come  closely  pressing,  whispering  low  words 

That  keep  .time  with  the  music,  redolent 
Of  deep  vibrations  in  the  hidden  chords 

That  round  the  heart  their  hurried  measure  keep, 

And  sway  its  pulses  with  resistless  sweep. 

Voice  of  the  voiceless !     Graves  give  up  their  dead, 

And  at  thy  words  departed  echoes  ring, 
Familiar  carols  from  the  lips  that  fled 

Long  weary  years  ago,  with  fatal  wing, 
Unto  the  silent  regions  of  the  tomb, 
And  died  away  there  in  its  hollow  gloom. 

Hush  !  .other  instruments  are  creeping  in 
To  perfect  the  concordance  of  the  whole, 

And  well-remembered  voices  now  begin 
To  bear  on  wings  invisible  my  soul. 

My  own !     Amongst  them  1  can  hear  my  own, 

Alas!  'Tis  almost  a  forgotten  tone! 
44 


518  E.     JUSTINE     BAYARD. 

Was  it  eve  darkening  o'er  the  pleasant  room 
When  the  soft  breezes  of  the  summer  night 

Breathed  through  its  atmosphere  a  faint  perfume, 
Or  when  the  autumn's  crimson  fire-light 

Glow'd  upon  every  brow,  thou  still  wert  there, 

Wreck  of  departed  days,  with  many  an  air. 

Joyous  or  sorrowful  —  profound  or  wild, 

Swiftly  thy  sweeping  chords  gave  out  their  tones, 

Light  as  the  laughter  of  a  sinless  child, 

Deep  as  the  anguish  told  in  captive  moans, 

Smooth  as  the  flow  of  rivers  to  the  sea, 

Irregular  as  dark  insanity. 

There  have  been  hands  that  are  beneath  the  mould 
(I  seem  to  feel  their  chillness  in  thy  touch), 

Eyes  wept  the  while  they  moved,  that  now  are  cold 
As  this  impassive  metal  —  yet  are  such 

The  things  that  bind  us  nearest,  move  us  most, 

And  leave  a  hopeless  voice  when  they  are  lost. 

Now,  stranger  hands  across  those  keys  will  run, 
And  other  walls  far  other  groups  surround, 

And  stranger  eyes  look  lovingly  upon 

The  unconscious  mover  of  the  realm  of  sound. 

That  realm,  once  sacred,  my  sweet  home,  to  thee, 

And  sacred  ever  to  my  memory. 

But  thou,  impassive  thing,  thus  sever'd  wide 

From  thy  sole  wealth  in  those  harmonious  waves, 

Another  empire  be  thine  own  beside : 

Be  thou  the  pass-key  to  the  spirit  caves, 

Thou  the  deliverer  of  their  captive  throng, 

The  portal  spirit  of  the  gates  of  song. 


MARION  H.  RAND. 


Miss  RAND  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  in  1824.  She  is  the  youngest 
daughter  of  Mr.  B.  H.  Rand,  a  well-known  teacher  and  author  of  pen 
manship  in  that  city.  When  only  eight  years  old,  she  began  to  prove 
her  love  for  poetry,  by  practising  rhymes ;  but  it  was  not  until  she  was 
fourteen,  that  any  of  them  were  published.  The  Young  People's  Book, 
edited  at  that  time  by  John  Frost,  first  welcomed  them  into  printed 
life ;  and  now  she  frequently  contributes  to  the  most  popular  periodicals 
of  the  day,  exhibiting  in  all  her  effusions,  tender  feeling  and  pleasing 
thought. 

SYMPATHY. 

HIDE  not  thy  secret  grief 
In  the  dark  chambers  of  the  soul, 
Where  sombre  thoughts  and  fancies  roll, 

Bringing  thee  no  relief. 
Gloomy  and  cold  the  spirit  grows, 
While  brooding  over  fancied  woes  : 
The  lightest  care,  while  yet  concealed, 
Lies  like  a  mountain  on  the  breast ; 
The  heaviest  grief,  when  once  revealed, 
Is  lulled  by  sympathy  to  rest. 

Relieve  thy  bursting  heart, 
And  pour  into  some  loving  ear 
Each  bitter  thought,  each  chilling  fear; 

How  soon  will  all  depart ! 
And  words  of  love,  like  healing  balm, 
Will  gently  soothe  and  sweetly  calm, 

(519) 


520  MARION     H.     RAND. 

Till  reason's  almost  fading  ray 
Resumes  its  firm  and  wonted  sway, 
And  though  thy  burden  be  not  less, 
Thou  wilt  not  still  be  comfortless. 

Hast  thou  no  human  friend, 
To  whom  in  hours  like  these  to  turn 
When  thine  o'erburden'd  soul  will  yearn 

Its  bitterness  to  end  ? 
Oh,  still  despair  not  —  there  is  One 
To  whom  sad  hearts  have  often  gone  — 
Though  rich  the  gifts  for  which  they  pray, 
None  ever  came  unblest  away : 
Then,  though  all  earthly  ties  be  riven, 
Smile,  fbr  thou  hast  a  friend  in  heaven. 


INFANCY. 

WHAT!  my  merry  little  one, 

Have  I  found  tliee  all  alone  ? 

Fast  asleep,  and,  as  it  seems, 

In  the  far-off  land  of  dreams  ? 

Say  what  fancies  hover  round  thee, 

While  the  chains  of  sleep  have  bound  thee  ? 

Where,  upon  this  sunny  morn, 

Has  that  gentle  spirit  gone  ? 

One  fair  arm  is  lightly  thrown 

Round  that  loved  and  loving  one, 

As  in  peaceful  sleep  ye  lie, 

Innocence  and  infancy. 

But  what  dreamest  thou,  my  boy  ? 

Are  there  thoughts  of  grief  or  joy 

Swelling  in  that  guileless  heart, 

Sweet  emotions  to  impart  ? 

Dreamest  thou  of  future  pleasures, 

New-found  pets,  or  new-found  treasures? 


MARION     H.     RAND.  521 

Ah  —  no  thoughts  like  these  have  place 

On  that  quiet,  serious  face. 

I  have  heard  that  angels  come, 

When  our  baby  spirits  roam, 

Round  the  slumberer's  couch,  to  shower 

Visions  of  a  glorious  power. 

There  are  often  dreams  of  Heaven 

To  the  infant  spirit  given. 

Oh  —  we  cannot,  cannot  tell 

What  a  mighty  holy  spell 

Round  the  pure,  young  heart  is  twined, 

When  the  chains  of  slumber  bind 

Merry  eyes  that  never  weep  — 

Lips  that  close  not  save  in  sleep  — 

Tones  that  ring  in  wild  delight  — 

Voices  only  hushed  at  night. 

Then,  perhaps,  thy  soul,  my  boy, 

Wandereth  in  those  realms  of  joy. 

Oh !  couldst  thou  but  speak,  and  tell 

All  thy  gentle  steps  befell, 

What  a  glorious  tale  would  flow 

From  thy  lips,  in  accents  low, 

But,  alas  —  it  may  not  be, 

With  thy  slumbers  dreams  will  flee. 

T  is  our  Heavenly  Father's  will, 

Merciful  and  gracious  still, 

Lest  thou  scorn  thine  earthly  lot, 

All  on   waking  is  forgot. 

'T  is  to  infant  hearts  alone 

Holy  things  like  these  are  shown.    . 

When  a  few  short  years  are  o'er, 
These  bright  dreams  return  no  more. 
But  may  that  sweet  influence  still 

All   thy  heart  and  temper  fill. 
That  All-seeing  Eye  will  be 

Ever  watching  over  thee ; 

44* 


522  ANGELINA     S.     MUMFORD. 

Still  thy  Guardian  and  thy  Guide 
Will  be  ever  at  thy  side ; 
He  will  bring  thee  on  thy  way, 
Through  the  cares  of  every  day, 
Till, 'when  this  life's  trials  o'er, 
Thou  standest  on  death's  awful  shore, 
These  dreams  that  nightly  come  to  thee, 
Prove  thine  in  blest  reality. 


ANGELINA  S.  MUMFORD 


Is  a  sister  of  Mrs.  Seward,  whose  poems  have  been  quoted  in  a  former 
part  of  this  volume.  She  seldom  writes  for  publication,  but  when  she 
does,  her  poems  are  signed  by  the  winning  nom-de-plume  of  Picciola. 
She  is  a  young  lady  of  combined  good  sense  and  fine  taste ;  and  her 
effusions  display  as  much  soundness  of  heart,  as  pure  poetical  feeling. 


CHEERFUL     CONTENT. 

I  KNOW  no  loneliness  of  heart,  —  no  shadowy  ideal, 
No  sighing  for  the  unattained,  —  the  beautiful  unreal; 
My  happiness  is  ever  near  in  treasures  few  and  small ; 
My  lowly  hopes  are  realized  in  young  fruition  all. 

And  mine  the  spirit  still  at  home  in  sorrow  and  in  joy, 
That  loseth  not  its  sweet  content  at  thought  of  earth's  annoy; 
The  violet,  that  bides  the  storm,  is  freshened  in  its  blue, 
And  sorrow  beats  upon  the  heart  to  strengthen  and  renew. 


ANGELINA     S.     MUMFORD.  523 

I  know  not  why  I  do  not  love  what  others  love  on  earth, 
Nor  why  what  others  seem  to  prize  to  me  is  nothing  worth, 
Nor  why  I  feel  so  trustful  of  every  one   I  see, 
Until  my  heart  belongs  to  them  more  than  it  does  to  me. 

The  flower  upon  our  mantel-shelf,— my  brother's  flute  at  night, 
The  way-worn  letter  from  afar  that  bringeth  pure  delight, 
The  voices  of  my  darling  ones  that  own  no  parlour  tone, 
With  these  to  sun  my  little  world,  I  could  not  feel  alone. 

I  have  an  earthly  mother,  and  my  home  is  in  her  heart, 
And  evermore  I  nestle  there,  though  we  are  far  apart; 
And  earthly  sisters  too  I  have,  and  brothers  for  my  love, 
That  cluster  round  me  like  the  stars  in  the  bright  heaven  above. 

In  fancy  only  I  can  live  and  love  beside  them  now, 

In  fancy  only  I  can  feel  their  kisses  on  my  brow  : 

I  cannot  see  the  hands  I  pressed,  the  ringlets  I  have  curled; 

My  head  that  used  to  lean  on  them,  is  rested  on  the  world. 

I  know  that  heaven  is  near  to  earth  where'er  my  lot  may  fall ; 
I  know  that  they  will  pray  for  me,  the  frailest  of  them  all; 
And  I,  if  I  were  growing  gray,  should  sleep  the  sleep  of  youth, 
For  my  soul  is  rocked  to  slumber  on  the  bosom  of  their  truth. 

There  is  a  worldly  wisdom  that  preacheth  to  despise 
The  chime  of  youthful  feeling,  that  impulsively  replies 
•To  the  whisper  of  affection,  wherever  it  may  spring, 
And  proffer  to  the  gazing  world  its  fragrant  blossoming. 

The  dew  refuseth  not  to  bathe  the  dusty  wayside,  flowers, 
Restoring  to  the  faded  grass  the  green  of  vernal  hours ; 
And  though  the  faith  were  all  disproved  another  hath  professed, 
The  withered  soul  may  be  revived  upon  a  loving  breast. 


I 

L. 


524  ANGELINA     S.     MUM  FORD. 

I  would  not  blush  to  give  away  whatever  I  possess 

Of  artless  and  confiding  faith,  and  woman's  tenderness; 

1  would  not  blush  to  wrap  my  thoughts  around  one  pulse  that 

thrills 
With  the  delicious  sense  of  life,  that  all  my  being  fills. 

Though  Love  is  widow'd  of  its  trust,  and  weeps  the  living  death, 
And  Genius,  bending  to  its  clay,  foregoes  the  ivy  wreath, 
The  only  night  that  I  could  know  would  be  the  soul's  eclipse, 
The  guile  that  worketh  at  the  heart, — the  falsehood  on  the  lips. 

I  love  the  smallest  living  thing  to  tears ;  and  quiei  thought 
Hath  sanctified  the  beautiful,  with  every  thing  inwrought; 
I  hear  a  glad  philosophy  throughout  existence  hymning, 
And  often  think  the  cup  of  life  for  me  is  full  to  brimming. 

TO     A     LADY. 

THINE  eyes  are  very  beautiful! 

I  would  they  were  less  bright, 
For  then  the  serpent  shining  there 

Could  never  pain  my  sight. 

I  would  that  sometimes  they  were  seen 

To  shed  repentant  tears, 
O'er  all  the  ruin  of  thy  heart, 

O'er  all  the  blight  of  years. 

Thy  brow  so  very  queenly  too, 

Truth's  coronet  should  grace; 
But  Falsehood's  circlet  dark  too  oft 

Usurps  the  sacred  place. 

And  though  thy  lip  smiles  lovingly, 

And  though  thy  cheek  is  fair; 
Where  dimpling  graces  should  abide 

Deceit  hath  made  its  lair. 


ANGELINA     S.     MUMFORD.  525 

I  've  been  among  the  foolish  ones 

Who  loud  thy  praises  sing, 
And  almost  wept  to  think  thou  art 

A  hollow-hearted  thing : 

Unworthy  all  the  flattery 

Thou  livest  to  secure; 
Unlovely  in  thy  inner  life, 

Though  outwardly  so  pure. 

Ah !   yes,  thy  face  is  beautiful, 

But  vainly  there  I  trace 
The  type  of  inward  purity, 

And  spiritual  grace. 

And  gloomy  is  the  prophecy, 

That  fills  my  boding  heart; 
For  me  thou  never  hast  deceived, 

With  thine  unequall'd  art. 

And  they  who  know  thy  treachery, 

Whom  thou  hast  once  beguiled, 
They  spare  thee  for  thy  husband's  sake 

And  for  thy  only  child. 


J 


HELEN  W.  IRVING. 

THE  writer  of  the  following  exquisite  lines  possesses  a  graceful  fancy, 
and  a  melodious  and  impressive  power  of  utterance. 

LOVE     AND     FAME. 


IT  had  passed  in  all  its  grandeur,  that  sounding  summer  shower, 
Had  paid  its  pearly  tribute  to  each  fair  expectant  flower, 
And,  while  a  thousand  sparklers  danced  lightly  on  the  spray, 
Close  folded  to  a  rose-bud's  heart,  one  tiny  rain-drop  lay. 

Throughout  each  fevered  petal  had  the  heaven-brought  fresh 
ness  gone, 

They  had  mingled  dew  and  fragrance  till  their  very  souls 
were  one ; 

The  bud,  its  love  in  perfume  breathed,  till  its  pure  and  starry 
guest 

Grew  gflowing  as  the  life-hue  of  the  lips  it  fondly  pressed. 

He  dreamed  away  the    hours  with   her,  his    gentle    bride   and 

fair, 

No  thought  filled  his  young  spirit,  but  to  dwell  for  ever  there, 
While  ever  bending  wakefully,  the  bud  a  fond  watch  kept, 
For  fear  the  envious  zephyrs  might  steal  him  as  he  slept. 

But  forth    from  out   his    tent    of  clouds    in    burnished    armour 

bright, 

The  conqVing  sun  came,  proudly,  in  the  glory  of  his  might, 
And  like  some  grand  enchanter,  resumed  his  wand  of  power, 
And  shed  the  splendour  of  his  smile  on  lake,  and  tree,  and 

flower. 


L 


HELEN     W .     IRVING.  527 

Then  peering  through  the  shadowy  leaves,  the  rain-drop  marked 

on  high, 

A  many-hued  triumphal  arch  span  all  the  eastern  sky  — 
He  saw  his  glittering  comrades  all  wing  their  joyous  flight, 
And  stand,  a  glorious  brotherhood,  to  form  that  bow  of  light ! 

Aspiring  thoughts  his  spirit  thrilled — "Oh,  let  me  join  them, 

love ! 

I'll  set  thy  beauty's  impress  on  yon  bright  arch  above, 
And,  as  a  world's  admiring  gaze  is  raised  to  Iris  fair, 
'T  will  deem  my  own  dear  rose-bud's  tint,  the  loveliest  colour 

there !" 

The  gentle  bud  released  her  clasp — swift  as  a  thought  he  flew, 
And  brightly  'mid  that  glorious  band  he  soon  was  glowing,  too — 
All  quivering  with  delight  to  feel,  that  she,  his  rose-bud  bride, 
Was  gazing,  with  a  swelling  heart,  on  this,  his  hour  of  pride ! 

But   the    shadowy   night    came    down,  at   last — the    glittering 

bow  was  gone, 

One  little  hour  of  triumph,  was  all  the  drop  had  won ; 
He  had  lost  the  warm  and  tender  glow,  his  distant  bud-love's 

hue, 
And  he  sought  her  sadly  sorrowing — a  tear-dimmed  star  of  dew. 


MARGARET  JUNKIN 


Is  a  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Junkin,  a  highly  esteemed  clergyman 
of  the  Presbyterian  denomination,  and  the  President  of  Lafayette 
College,  Easton,  Pennsylvania.  Her  poetry  is  little  known  beyond  the 
choice  circle  of  friends,  whose  affection  is  better  to  her  than  public 
praise;  though  she  has  talent  enough  to  gain  that,  if  we  may  judge  by 
the  force  and  originality  of  the  following  verses. 


GALILEO     BEFORE     THE     INQUISITION. 

WHY  wrapped  he  not  a  martyr's  robe 

Around  his  lofty  form  ? 
Why  bore  he  not  with  dauntless  brow 

The  bursting  of  the  storm  ? 
Why  cringed  the  mind  that  proudly  soared 

Where  others  gazed  dismayed, 
With  servile  will  before  the  power 

Whose  grasp  was  on  him  laid  ? 

They  tell  us  it  was  fear  that  bowed 

His  mighty  spirit,  when 
He  stooped  beneath  the  rusty  links 

Of  superstition's  chain : 
—  The  dungeon  cell  was  dark,  —  and  light 

Was  pleasant  to  his  eye, 
And,  holy  tho'  the  truth,  for  it 

He  did  not  dare  to  die. 

pear|  —  what  had  he  to  do  with  fear, 

Who  ventured  out  abroad, 
Unpiloted,  thro'  pathless  space, 

By  angels  only  trod  :  — 

(528) 


MARGARET    JUNKIN.  529 

Who  wandered  with  unfailing  flight, 

Creation's  vastness  o'er, 
And  brought  to  light  an  infinite, 

So  unconceived  before. 


When  gazing  on  those  worlds  which  first 

He  was  allowed  to  scan, 
How  puny  would  appear  the  aims 

And  littleness  of  man! 
And  proud  his  inward  consciousness, 

That  he  had  dared  to  be 
A  sharer  in  the  mysteries 

Of  God's  immensity. 

When  back  to  earth  he  turned  again,  — 

Such  brilliant  visions  past, 
How  most  contemptible  would  seem 

The  trammels  round  him  cast! 
And  yet  his  lofty  character 

Submitted  to  the  stain  ; 
And  lulling  Ignorance  entwined 

Her  weak,  Delilah  chain. 

Strange  that  the  ray  which  beamed  for  him 

Wjth  such  intense  delight, 
Should  for  a  single  moment  lose 

Its  glory  in  his  sight  :  — 
Strange  that  the  eye  whose  strength  could  pierce 

From   world  to  world  afar, 
Should  suffer  fear  to  cloud  the  blaze 

Of  Truth's  diviner  star! 


45  2 1 


MARY  J.  REED, 

THE  young  author  of  the  simple  and  beautiful  poems  with  which  we 
close  our  volume,  is  an  orphan,  a  native  of  Philadelphia,  where  she 
resides  with  her  brother.  She  has  written  much  for  the  journals  of 
that  city,  under  the  name  of  Marie  Roseau,  and  all  her  effusions  are 
distinguished  by  the  elevated  tone  of  mind,  and  the  loving,  pure,  and 
useful  purpose  they  display. 

W  E  A  RY. 

FATHER!  Pm  sad  and  weary  —  give  me  rest! 

Weary  of  earth,  its  troubles  and  its  snares; 

Weary  of  combat  with  its  many  cares ; 
Is  there  no  refuge  for  me  on  thy  breast? 

Deceived  by  those  on  whom  I  most  relied  — 
Weary  of  broken  friendship,  oft  betrayed  — 
Yearning  to  trust,  and  yet  to  trust  afraid, 

I  come  to  One,  in  whom  I  may  confide. 

Oh !   I  am  weary  of  this  sinful  life ! 

Weary  of  error,  and  yet  erring  still, 

Knowing  yet  doing  not  thy  holy  will, 
Oh,  I  am  weary  of  this  endless  strife  ! 

I  ask  not  that  thou  take  me  from  the  earth, 
But  keep  me  from  its  evils,  — guide  my  feet, 
And  give  me  strength  its  many  cares  to  meet  — 

To  act  all  worthy  of  my  heavenly  birth. 

Oh!  teach  me  to  do  good;  —  with  heart  and  hand 
To  help  those  struggling  'neath  a  load  of  grief, 
Relieving  where  my  aid  may  bring  relief, 

Thus  ever  following  thy  blest  command. 

(530) 

i  J 


MARY    J.     REED.  531 

Oh  give  to  me  an  innate  dread  of  sin, 
That  1  may  tread  thy  way  in  holy  fear, 
Striving  to  keep  my  conscience  ever  clear; 

My  words  all  right,  and  purity  within. 

And  if  I  feel  this  life  a  weariness, 

With  such  an  utter  loneliness  of  heart, 

Oh  gird  my  spirit  —  newer  strength  impart  — 

With  heavenly  sympathy  my  spirit  bless. 

Then  will  my  soul  the  holy  influence  know, 
Then  may  I  be  a  conqu'ror  in  the  strife, 
And  I  may  firmly  tread  my  way  through  life, 

Till  ends  its  toilsome  pilgrimage  below. 


LITTLE     CHILDREN. 

SPEAK  gently  to  the  little  child, 

So  guileless  and  so  free, 
Who  with  a  trustful,  loving  heart 

Puts  confidence  in  thee. 
Speak  not  the  cold  and  careless  words 

Which  time  has  taught  thee  well, 
Nor  breathe  one  thought  whose  saddened  tone 

Despair  might  seem  to  tell. 

If  on  his  brow  there  rests  a  cloud, 

However  light  it  be, 
Speak  loving  words,  and  let  him  feel 

He  has  a  friend  in  thee  ; 
And  do  not  send  him  from  thy  side 

Till  on  his  face  shall  rest 
The  joyous  look  and  sunny  smile, 

That  mark  a  happy  breast. 


532  MARY     J.     REED. 

Oh !  teach  him  this  should  be  his  aim, 

To  cheer  the  aching  heart, 
To  strive  where  thickest  darkness  reigns 

Some  radiance  to  impart ; 
To  spread  a  peaceful,  quiet  calm, 

Where  dwells  the  noise  of  strife, 
Thus  doing  good,  and  blessing  all, 

To  spend  the  whole  of  life. 

To  love  with  pure  affection  deep 

All  creatures,  great  and  small, 
And  still  a  stronger  love  to  bear 

For  Him  who  made  them  all. 
Remember  't  is  no  common  task 

That  thus  to  thee  is  given, 
To  rear  a  spirit  fit  to  be 

The  habitant  of  Heaven  ! 


THE    END. 


LINDSAY  &    BLAKISTON 

PUBLISH   THE 

BRITISH    FEMALE    POETS: 

WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES, 

BY 

GEO.   W.    BETHUNE. 

AN   ELEGANT  VOLUME,   WITH    A   HANDSOME   VIGNETTE    TITLE; 

AND 

PORTRAIT  OF  THE  HON,  MRS,  NORTON, 

The  Literary  contents  of  this  work  contain  copious  selections  from 

the  writings  of 

Anne  Boleyn,  Countess  of  Arundel,  Queen  Elizabeth,  Duchess  of 

Newcastle,  Elizabeth  Carter,  Mrs.  Tighe,   Miss  Hannah    .More, 

Mrs.  Hemaiis,   Lady  Flora  Hastings,   Mrs.   Amelia   Opie,    Miss 

Eliza  Cook,  Mrs.  Southey,  Miss  Lowe,  Mrs.  Norton,  Elizabeth 

B.  Barrett,  Catharine  Parr,  Mary  Q,uecii  of  Scots,  Countess 

of  Pembroke,  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague,  Mrs.  Gre« 

ville,  Mrs.  Barbauld,  Joanna  Baillie,  Letitia  Elizabeth 

Lanrloii,  Charlotte   Elizabeth,    Mary  Russell   Mitford, 

Mrs.  Coleridge,  Mary  I  low  it  t,  Frances  Kcmble  Butler, 

&c«  «fcc.  &c» 

The  whole  forming  a  beautiful  specimen  of  the  highly  cultivated  state  of 

the  arts  in  the  United  States,  as  regards  the  paper,  typography, 

and  binding  in  rich  and  various  styles. 

OPINIONS    OF   THE    PRESS. 

In  the  department  of  English  poetry,  we  have  long  looked  for  a  spirit  cast  in  nature's  finest,  yet 
most  elevated  mould,  possessed  of  the  most  delicate  and  exquisite  taste,  the  keenest  perception 
of  the  innate  true  and  beautiful  in  poetry,  as  opposed  to  their  opposites,  who  could  give  to  us  a 
pure  collection  of  the  British  Female  Poets;  many  of  them  among  the  choicest  spirits  that,  ever 
graced  and  adorned  humanity.  The  object  of  our  search,  in  this  distinct  and  important  mission, 
is  before  us;  and  we  acknowledge  at  once  in  Dr.  Bethune.  the  gifted  poet,  the  eloquent  divine, 
and  the  humble  Christian,  one  who  combines,  in  an  eminent  degree,  all  the  characteristics  above 
alluded  to.  It  raises  the  mind  loftier,  and  makes  it  purified  with  the  soul,  to  float  in  an  atmosphere 
of  spiritual  purity,  to  peruse  the  elegant  volume  before  us,  chaste,  rich,  and  beautiful,  without  and 
within.— The  Spectator. 

We  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  any  previous  attempt  to  form  a  poetical  bouquet  exclusively 
from  gardens  planted  by  female  hands,  and  made  fragrant,  and  beautiful  by  woman's  gentle  culture. 
We  know  few  men  equally  qualified  with  the  gifted  Editor  of  this  volume  for  the  tasteful  and 
judicious  selection  and  adjustment  of  the  various  flowers  that  are  to  delight  with  their  sweetness, 
soothe  with  their  softness,  and  impart  profit  with  their  sentiment.  The  volume  is  enriched  with 
Biographical  Sketches  of  some  sixty  poetesses,  each  sketch  being  followed  with  specimens  charac 
teristic  of  her  style  and  powers  of  verse.  In  beauty  of  typography,  and  general  (jetting  u/i,  this 
volume  is  quite  equal  to  the  best  issues  of  its  tasteful  and  enterprising  publishers  — Episcopal  Recorder. 

It  is  handsomely  embellished,  and  may  be  described  as  a  casket  of  gems.  Dr.  Bethune,  who  is 
himself  a  poet  of  no  mean  genius,  has  in  this  volume  exhibited  the  most  refined  taste.  The  work 
may  be  regarded  as  a  treasury  of  nearly  all  the  best  pieces  of  British  Female  Poets. — Inquirer. 

This  volume,  which  is  far  more  suited  fora  holyday  gift  than  many  which  are  prepared  expressly 
for  the  purpose,  contains  extracts  from  all  the  most  distinguished  English  Female  Poets,  selected 
with  the  taste  and  judgment  which  we  have  a  right  to  expect  from  the  eminent  divine  and  highly 
gifted  poet  whose  name  adorns  the  title  page.  It  is  a  rare  collection  of  the  richest  gems.— Haiti- 
more  American. 

Dr.  Bethune  has  selected  his  materials  with  exquisite  taste,  culling  the  fairest  and  sweetest 
flowers  from  the  extensive  field  cultivated  by  the  British  Female  Poets.  The  brief  Biographical 
Notices  add  much  interest  to  the  volume,  and  vastly  increase  its  value.  It  is  pleasant  to  find  hard 
working  and  close-thinking  divines  thus  recreating  themselves,  and  contributing  by  their  recrea 
tions  to  the  refinement  of  the  age.  Dr.  Bethune  has  brought  to  his  task  poetic  enthusiasm,  aud  a 
ready  perception  of  the  pure  and  beautiful.— N.  Y.  Commercial. 


BETHUNE'S  POEMS, 


LINDSAY    &   BLAKISTON   PUBLISH, 

LAYS    OF    LOVE    AND     FAITH, 

WITH    OTHER 

FUGITIVE   POEMS. 

BY   THE 
REV.    G.    W .    BETHUNE,    D.D. 

This  is  an  elegant  Volume,  beautifully  printed  on  the  finest  and  whites* 
paper,  and  richly  bound  in  various  styles. 


As  one  arranges  in  a  simple  vase 

A  little  store  of  unpretending  flowers, 

So  gathered  I  some  records  of  past  hours, 
And  trust  them,  gentle  reader,  to  thy  grace, 
Nor  hope  that  in  my  pages  thou  wilt  trace 

The  biilliant  proof  of  high  poetic  powers; 
But  dear  memorials  of  happy  days, 

When  heaven  shed  blessings  on  my  heart  like  shower*, 
Clothing  with  beauty  e'en  the  des«rt  place; 
Till  I,  with  thankful  gladness  in  my  looks, 

Turned  me  to  God,  sweet  nature,  loving  friends, 
Christ's  little  children,  well-worn  ancient  books, 

The  charm  of  Art,  the  rapture  music  sends; 
And  sang  away  the  grief  that  on  man's  lot  attends. 


OPINIONS   OF   THE    PRESS. 

We  beg  leave  to  express  our  thanks  to  the  diligent  author  of  these  Poems,  for  this 
additional  and  highly  valuable  contribution  to  the  treasures  of  American  literature. 
The  prose  writings  of  Dr.  Bethune,  by  their  remarkably  pure  and  chaste  language, 
th.  ir  depth  and  clearness  of  thought,  their  force  and  beauty  of  illustration,  and  by  their 
intelligent  and  elevated  piety,  have  justly  secured  to  hiin  a  place  with  the  very  best 
authors  of  <  ur  land,  whose  works  are  destined  to  exert  a  wide-spread  and  most  salutary 
infl  lence  on  the  forming  character  and  expanding  mind  of  our  growing  republic.  This 
volume  of  his  collected  poetry,  though  it  be.  as  the  author  observes  in  his  beautiful 
introductory  sonnet,  but  the  "gathered  records  of  past  hours,"  or  the  fruit  of  moments 
of  industrious  relaxation  from  more  severe  labours,  may  without  fear  take  its  place  by 
the  side  of  our  best  poetic  productions;  and  there  are  many  pieces  in  it,  which,  for 
accuracy  of  rhythm  for  refined  sentiment,  energy  of  thought,  flowing  and  lucid  ex 
pression,  and  subduing  pathos,  are  unsurpassed  by  any  writer. 

Exteriorlv.  and  i:i  the  matters  of  paper  and  typography,  this  is  an  elegant  volume, 
anil  so  far  i<  a  fitting  casket  for  the  gems  it  contains— for  perns  these  beautiful  poems 
are.  of  "p"rest  ray  serene" — lustrous  jewels — ornaments  of  purest  virgin  gold. 

.Many  hallowed  breathings  will  be  found  among  the  poems  here  collected— all  distin 
guished  In  correct  taste  and  refined  feeling,  rarely  dazzling  by  gorgeous  imagery,  but 
always  charming  by  their  purity  and  truthfulness  to  nature. — JV".  Y.  Commercial. 

Tho  author  of  this  volume  has  a  gifted  mind,  improved  by  extensive  education;  a 
cheerful  temper,  chastened  by  religion  ;  a  sound  taste,  refined  and  improved  by  extensive 
observation  and  much  reading,  and  the  gift  of  poetry.— JVorth  American. 

The  Volume  before  us  contains  much  that  is  truly  beautiful;  many  gems  that  sparkle 
with  genius  and  feeling.  They  are  imbued  with  the  true  spirit  of  poesy,  and  may  be 
read  again  and  again  with  pleasure. — Inquirer. 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


A  BOOK  FOR  EVERY  CHRISTIAN, 

THE   SECOND   EDITION. 


MEMOIR  OF  MISS  MARGARET  MERCER, 

BY  CASPAR  MORRIS,  M.  D. 

A  neat  18mo.  volume,  with  a  beautiful  Engraved 
PORTRAIT  OF   MISS   MERCER, 

OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS. 

Miss  Mercer  was  a  daughter  of  the  late  Governor  Mercer,  of  Maryland.  Her  father, 
who  was  a  Virginian,  and  the  descendant  of  a  distinguished  family,  removed  to  Straw- 
jerry  Hill,  near  Annapolis,  Md.,  soon  after  his  marriage.  In  the  memoir  of  the  daughter, 
Ive  have  the  moral  portraiture  of  a  character  of  great  moral  worth.  Miss  Mercer  was 
a  Christian,  who  earnestly  sought  to  promote  the  glory  of  the  Saviour,  in  persevering 
efforts  to  be  usef.il  in  every  position,  and  especially  as  a  teacher  of  the  young.  Her 
energy  of  mind  and  elevated  principles,  united  with  humility  and  gentleness,  and  devoted 
piety,  illustrated  in  her  useful  life,  rendered  her  example  worthy  of  a  lasting  memorial. 
The  work  is  accompanied  by  numerous  extracts  from  her  correspondence.  —  Christian 
Observer. 

The  perusal  of  this  Memoir  will  do  good ;  it  shows  how  much  can  be  accomplished  by 
superior  talents,  under  the  control  of  a  heart  imbued  with  love  to  the  Saviour.  The 
contemplation  of  tho  character  of  Miss  Mercer  may  lead  others  to  put  forth  similar 
efforts,  and  reap  a  like  reward. — Christian  Chronicle. 

It  is  impossible  to  read  this  Memoir  without  the  conviction  that  Miss  Mercer  was  a 
very  superior  woman,  both  in  her  attainments  and  her  entire  self-consecration.  In 
laying  down  the  book,  we  feel  alike  admiration  for  the  biographer  and  the  subject  of  the 
Memoir. — Presbyterian. 

WATSON'S  NEW  DICTIONARY  OF  POETICAL  QUOTATIONS. 

A  neat  12mo.  Volume  in  plain  and  extra  bindings. 


A  NEW  DICTIONARY  OF  POETICAL  DOTATIONS, 

CONSISTING  OF  ELEGANT  EXTRACTS  ON  EVERY  SUBJECT, 

Compiled  from  various  Authors,  and  arranged  under  appropriate  heads, 

BY   JOHN   T.   WATSON,   3M.D. 

OPINIONS   OF   THE    PRESS. 

We  may  safely  recommend  this  book  as  a  collection  of  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
conceptions,  elegantly  expressed,  to  be  found  in  the  range  of  English  and  American 
poetry. — Saturday  Courier. 

We  reirard  this  as  the  best  book  of  a  similar  character  yet  published.— Oermantown 
Telegraph. 

In  this  Dictionary  of  Quotations  every  subject  is  touched  upon  ;  and,  while  the  selec 
tion  has  been  carefully  made,  it  has  the  merit  of  containing  the  best  thoughts  of  the 
Foets  of  our  own  day,  which  no  other  collection  has.—  U.  S.  Gazette. 

The  selections  in  this  hook  are  made  with  taste  from  all  poets  of  note,  and  are  classed 
under  a  great  variety  of  subjects. — Presbyterian. 

The  Quotations  appear  to  have  been  selected  with  great  judgment  and  taste,  by  one 
well  acquainted  with  whatever  is  most  elegant  and  beautiful  in  the  whole  range  of 
literature.—  Christian  Observer 


LINDSAY  &,  BLAKISTON  PUBLISH, 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LIFE, 

A   TRULY    AMERICAN    BOOK,   ENTIRELY   ORIGINAL, 

PRESENTING  A  VIEW  OF  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LIFE, 

FROM  INFANCY   TO   OLD   AGE: 

Illustrated  by  a  series  of   Kleveu    Engravings,  beautifully 
executed  on  steel, 

BY  J.  SARTAIN,  PHILADELPHIA, 
INCLUDING 

Infancy,  {\ri«nette  Title,)  Designed by  Schmitz. 

Childhood^  Painted    "  Eichholtz. 

Boyhood,  '( Frontispiece,)  Painted "  Osgood. 

Girlhood "  Rossiter. 

Maidenhood «  Rothermel. 

The  Bride «  Rossiter. 

The  Mother "  Rossiter. 

The  Widow , «  Rossiter. 

Manhood,  Designed «  Rothermel. 

Old  Age «  Rothermel. 

The  Shrouded  Mirror,  Designed "  Rev.  Dr.  Morton. 

The  literary  contents  comprise  original  articles  in  prose  and  verse,  from 

the  pens  of 

RKV.  G.  W.  BETHUNE,  REV.  CLEMENT  M.  BUTLKR,  MRS.  SIGOCRNEY,  MRS 

Osooon,  Mus.  HALE,  Mns.  ELLET,  J.  T.  HEAIILKT,  REV.  M.  A.  DK 

WOLFE   HOWE,  Miss  SEDOWICK,  REV.  WM.  B.  SPRAOUK,  REV. 

H.  HASTINGS  WKI.D,  Miss  CAROLINE  E  ROBERTS,  BUSHROU 

BAKTLETT,  Ksa,  ALICE  G.  LEE,  HOPE  HESSELTINE, 

AND   OTHER    FATOURITE   AUTHORS   OF   OUR   OWN  COUNTRY. 

EDITED  BY  MRS.  L.  C.  TUTHILL, 

And    richly  bound  in  various  styles. 


OPINIONS   OF   THE    PRESS. 

This  is  an  elegant  volume;  with  an  excellent  design,  combining  nil  that  is  attractive 
in  typographical  execution,  with  beautiful  engravings,  it  illustrate*  the  progress  of 
human  lif  •  in  a  scries  of  mezzotints  of  the  most  finished  style.  These  handsome  pic 
ture's  present  boyhood  and  girlhood,  the  lover  and  the  loved,  the  bride  and  the  mother, 
the  widow  an:l  ol.l  age,  with  many  other  scenes  that  will  leave  a  pleasing  and  salutary 
impression.  The  literary  department  is  executed  by  a  variety  of  able  and  entertaining 
writers,  formiii"  altogether  a  beautiful  gift-book,  appropriate  to  all  seasons. — JV.  Y.  Ob 
server. 


A  most  henntifil  gem  of  a  book,  and  a  snperb  specimen  of  artistical  skill,  as  well  at 
a  ".Mirror  of  Life."  As  a  brilliant  and  tasteful  ornament  for  the  centre-table,  or  a 
memento  of  affection  and  good  wishes,  to  he  presented  in  the  form  of  a  Birthday, 
Christmas,  or  New  Year's  gift,  to  a  friend,  it  is  richly  entitled  to  the  consideration  and 
patronage  of  the  public.—  Christian  Observer. 

The  idea  is  a  happy  one,  and  the  work  is  every  way  worthy  of  its  subject.  Without 
being  too  costly,  it  is  in  every  respect  a  very  handsome  volume;  the  sentiments  it  con 
tains  are  not  only  unobjectionable,  but  salutary  ;  and  we  cannot  conceive  a  gift  of  tho 
kind  which,  between  intelligent  friends,  would  be  more  acceptable  to  the  receiver  or 
honourable  to  the  giver.— JV.  Y.  Commercial. 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON  PUBLISH, 

SCENES  IN  THE  LIVES  OF  THE  PATRIARCHS 
AND  PROPHETS ; 

A    COMPANION    TO    THE 

SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SAVIOUR  AND  THE  APOSTLES, 

EDITED  BY  THE  REV.  H.  HASTINGS  WELD. 

BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUSTRATED  BY 
EIGHT    ENGRAVINGS    ON    STEEL,    BY   SARTAIN. 

INCLUDING 

San]  presenting  his  Daughter  to  David Painted  by  Woodforde. 

A  View  of  Hebron,  Vignette  Title-page....  "  Bracebridge. 

God's  Covenant  with  Noah «  Rothermel. 

Abraham  Offering  up  Isaac M  Westall. 

The  Arrival  of  Rebekah * "  Schopin. 

Jacob  at  the  House  of  Laban "  Schopin. 

Moses  Smiting  the  Rock.  ..,. »...  «  Murillo. 

Elijah  Fed  by  Ravens "  Corbould. 

With  a  choree  Selection  of  Matter  from  the  Writings  of 

MILTON,  HEMANS,  WORDSWORTH,  CROLY,  WILLIS,  YOUNG,  SIGOURNEY, 

WHITTIER,  HOWITT,  SCOTT,  HEBER,  MONTGOMERY,  MILMAN, 

HANNAH  MOUK,  WATTS,  DALE,  TAPPAN,   and  other 

Eminent  Writers  of  this  and  other  Countries. 

Handsomely  bound  in  cloth  gilt,  Turkey  Morocco,  or  in  white  calf. 


OPINIONS   OF    THE   PRESS. 

The  character  of  the  scenes  represented,  the  pure  and  eloquent  sacred  poetry  which 
the  work  contains,  render  it  a  book  peculiarly  befitting  presentation  at  that  season  when 
the  world  is  celebrating  the  birth  of  its  Saviour.  We  hope  this  joint  effort  of  the  l^ncil 
and  pen  to  render  familiar  the  sacred  scenes  of  the  Old  Testament,  will  meet  the  support 
which  it  deserves  from  all  lovers  of  the  sacred  volume. — Christian  Advocate  and  Journal. 

We  do  but  simple  justice  when  we  declare,  that  it  has  seldom  fallen  to  our  lot  to 
notice  a  book  which  possesses  so  many  and  such  varied  attractions.  Mr.  Weld  has 
gathered  from  the  best  writers  the  most  beautiful  of  their  works,  in  illustration  of  his 
theme,  and  prepared  for  the  reader  a  rich  repast.  We  are  assured  that  the  volume  before 
us  will,  like  those  which  preceded  it.  come  acceptably  before  the  public,  and  be  a  favourite 
oflering  during  the  approaching  holiday  season. —  Graham's  Magazine. 

It  is  a  handsome  octavo,  beautifully  illustrated  with  enarravinss  on  steel,  in  Sartain's 
best  manner.  It  is  published  in  uniform  style  with  "The  Scenes  in  the  Life  of  the 
Saviour,"  and  is  every  way  worthy  to  continue  this  flue  series  of  scriptural  works. 
The  literary  portion  of  the  volume  is  admirably  chosen,  embracing  many  of  the  most 
distinguished  names  in  America.  As  a  work  of  art,  it  is  a  credit  to  the  book-making 
of  o  ir  country.— Boston  Atlas. 

This  is  pre-eminently  a  book  of  beauty — printed  in  the  best  style,  on  the  finest  and 
fairest  paper,  and  embellished  with  the  richest  specimens  of  the  engraver's  art.  Its 
contents  comprise  a  choice  selection  from  the  writings  of  celebrated  poets,  illustrative 
of  the  character,  the  countries,  and  of  the  times  of  the  Patriarchs  and  Prophets.  The 
elevated  spirit  and  character  of  the  sacred  poetry  in  this  volume,  as  well  as  its  surpass 
ing  b.iauly,  will  render  it  peculiarly  valuable  as  a  present  or  an  ornament  for  the  parlour 
table. — Christian  Observer. 


Paul  before  Agrippa,  by  Sartain  : 
John  on  the  Isle  of  Patmos,  by  Decai 


SCENES  IN  THE  LIVES  OF  THE  APOSTLES ; 

ILLUSTRATED    BY 

CELEBRATED  POETS  AND  PAINTERS. 

EDITED    DY 

H.   HASTINGS   WELD. 
Eight  Illustrations,  beautifully  Engraved  on  Steel,  by  Sartain. 

The  Redeemer,  painted  by  Decaine  —  Frontis-   I    Christ's  charge  toPeter,  by  Raphael ; 

Diece  .  Peter  and  John  healing  the  Lame  Man  at  the 

Antioch  m  Syria,  by  Harding— Vignette  title ;  _     Beautiful  Gate  of  the  Temple,  by  Raphael ; 

John  reproving  Herod,  by  Le  Bruu  ; 

Christ,  with  his  Disciples,  weeping  over  Jerusa 
lem,  by  Begas ; 
THE  LITERARY  CONTENTS  CONSIST  OF  UPWARDS  OF  SEVENTY  POEMS,  BY 

Bishop  Heber,   Lowell,  Keble,  Hannah  F.  Gould,  Clark,  Mrs. 

Ilemans,  Mrs.  Sigourney,  Barton,  Bryant,  Miss  Landon,  Tap- 

pan,  Pierpont,  Longfellow,  Miss  Davidson,  Dale,  Cros- 

well,  Percival,  Bow  ring,  and  other  celebrated  Poets. 

Beautifully  bound,  in  various  styles,  to  match  "  Scenes  in  the  Life 
of  the  Saviour." 

We  do  not  know  where  we  could  find  a  more  elegant  and  appropriate 
present  for  a  Christian  friend.  It  will  always  have  value.  It  is  not  one  of 
those  ephemeral  works  which  are  read,  looked  at,  and  forgotten.  It  tells  of 
scenes  dear  to  the  hearts  of  Christians,  which  must  ever  find  there  an  abiding 
place. — Banner  of  the  Cross. 

Here  is  truly  a  beautiful  volume,  admirable  in  design,  and  perfect  in  its 
execution.  The  editor,  with  a  refined  taste,  and  a  loving  appreciation  of 
Scripture  history,  has  selected  some  of  the  best  writings  of  ancient  and  modern 
authors  in  illustration  of  various  scenes  in  the  Lives  of  the  Apostles,  whilst 
his  own  facile  pen  has  given  us  in  prose  a  series  of  excellent  contributions. 
The  lyre  of  Heber  seems  to  vibrate  again  as  we  turn  over  its  pages  ;  arid 
Keble,  Jenner,  Cowper,  Herrick,  Bernard,  Barton,  and  a  brilliant  host  of 
glowing  writers,  shine  again  by  the  light  of  Christian  truth,  and  the  beaming 
effulgence  of  a  pure  religion.  It  is  an  elegant  and  appropriate  volume  for  a 
Christmas  gift. —  Transcript. 

The  exterior  is  novel  and  beautiful ;  the  typography  is  in  the  highest  style 
of  the  art  ;  and  the  engravings,  nine  in  number,  are  among  the  best  efTorta 
of  Mr.  Sartain.  The  prose  articles  contributed  by  the  editor  are  well  written  ; 
and  the  poetical  selections  are  made  with  judgment.  The  volume  is  a  worthy 
companion  of  "  Scenes  in  the  Life  of  the  Saviour,"  and  both  are  much  more 
worthy  of  Christian  patronage  than  the  great  mass  of  annuals. — Presbyterian. 

The  above  volumes  are  among  the  most  elegant  specimens  from  the 
American  press.  In  neatness  and  chasteness  of  execution,  they  are  perhaps 
unsurpassed.  The  engravings  are  of  the  highest  order;  and  illustrate  most 
strikingly,  and  with  great  beauty,  some  of  the  most  sublime  and  the  most 
touching  Scripture  scenes.  They  also  contain  some  of  the  richest  specimens 
of  Sacred  Poetry,  whose  subject  and  style  are  such  as  deeply  to  interest  the 
imagination,  and  at  the  same  time  to  make  the  heart  better.  We  hope  the 
Christian's  table,  at  least,  may  be  adorned  with  the  volumes  above  mentioned, 
and  such  as  these. — New  England  Puritan. 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON 

HAVE  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED, 

SCENFS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SAVIOUR, 

BY  THE 

POETS  AND   PAINTERS: 

CONTAINING 

MANY     OEMS     OF     ART     AND     GENIUS, 

ILLUSTRATIVE     OF 

THE  SAVIOUR'S  LIFE  AND  PASSION. 

EDITED    BY    THE 

REV.   RUFUS  GRISWOLD. 

THE   ILLUSTRATIONS,  WHICH  ARE  EXQUISITELY  ENGRAVED  ON  STEEL, 
BY  JOHN  SARTAIN,  ARE  : 


.Tue  ?nly  Family.  Painted  by  N.  Poussin  ;  I  Walking  on  the  Sea,  by  Henry  Richter  ; 

The  Srmour,  hy  Paul  Dehiruche  ;  |  The  Ten  Lepers,  by  A.  Vandyke  : 

Christ  hy  the  Well  of  Sychar.  by  Emelie  Signol  ;    The  Last  Supper,  by  Benjamin  West  ; 

1  he  Daughter  of  Janus,  by  Delonne  ;  |  The  Women  at  the  Sepulchre,  by  Philip  Viet. 

THE  LITERARY  CONTENTS,  COMPRISING  SIXTY-FOUR  POEMS,  ARE  BY 

Milton,  Hemaus,  Montgomery,  Kcblc,  Mrs.  Sigourney,  Miss  Lan» 

don,  Dale,  Willis.  Bulftnch,  Bethune,  Longfellow,  Whlttier, 

Croly,  Klopstock,  Mrs.  Osgood,  Pierpont,  Crosswell,  and 

other  celebrated  Poets  of  tills  and  other  Countries. 

The  volume  is  richly  and  beautifully  bound  in  Turkey  Morocco,  gilt,  white 
calf  extra,  or  embossed  cloth,  gilt  edges,  sides  and  back. 

We  commend  this  volume  to  the  attention  of  those  who  would  place  a 
Souvenir  in  the  hands  of  their  friends,  to  invite  them  in  the  purest  strains  of 
poetry,  and  by  the  eloquence  of  art,  to  study  the  Life  of  the  Saviour.—  Christ.  06*. 

The  contents  are  so  arranged  as  to  constitute  a  Poetical  and  Pictorial  Life 
of  the  Saviour,  and  we  can  think  of  no  more  appropriate  gift-book.  In  typo 
graphy,  embellishments,  and  binding,  we  have  recently  seen  nothing  more 
tasteful  and  rich.—  North  American. 

We  like  this  book,  as  well  for  its  beauty  as  for  its  elevated  character.  It 
is  just  such  an  one  as  is  suited,  either  for  a  library,  or  a  parlour  centre-table  ; 
and  no  one  can  arise  from  its  perusal  without  feeling  strongly  the  sublimity 
nnd  enduring  character  of  the  Christian  religion.  —  Harrisburg  Telegraph. 

This  is  truly  a  splendid  volume  in  all  its  externals,  while  its  contents  are 
richly  worthy  of  the  magnificent  style  in  which  they  are  presented.  As  illus 
trations  of  the  Life  and  Passion  of  the  Saviour  of  mankind,  it  will  form  an 
appropriate  Souvenir  for  the  season  in  which  we  commemorate  his  coming 
upon  earth.—  NeaVs  Gazette. 


LINDSAY  &   BLAKISTON 

HAVE  JUST  PUBLISHED 

THE  WOMEN   OF  THE  SCRIPTURES, 

EDITED     BY     THE 

REV.   H.   HASTINGS   WELD; 

WITH 

ORIGINAL  LITERARY  CONTRIBUTIONS, 

BY 

DISTINGUISHED  AMERICAN  WRITERS: 

BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUSTRATED  BY 

TWELVE  SUPEKB   ENGRAVINGS   ON  STEEL, 
BY  J,  SARTAIN,  PHILADELPHIA, 

FROM   ORIGINAL   DESIGNS,   EXPRESSLY   FOR   THE   WORK, 

BY   T,   P,    ROSSITER,    NEW    YORK! 

INCLUDING 


Miriam. 
Eve, 

Sarah, 
Rachel, 


Hannah, 

Ruth, 

Queen  of  Sheba. 

Shunamite, 


Esther, 

The  Syrophenician, 

Martha, 

The  Marys. 


Elegantly  Bound  in  White  Calf,  Turkey  Morocco,  and  Cloth 
Extra,  with  Gilt  Edges. 


PREFACE. 

THE  subject  of  this  book  entitles  it  to  a  high  place  among  illustrated 
volumes.  The  execution,  literary  and  artistic,  will,  we  are  confident,  be 
found  worthy  of  the  theme ;  since  we  have  received  the  assistance  of 
authors  best  known  in  the  sacred  literature  of  our  country,  in  presenting, 
in  their  various  important  attitudes  and  relations,  the  WOMEN  OF  THE 
SCRIPTURES.  The  contents  of  the  volume  were  prepared  expressly  fpr  it, 
with  the  exception  of  the  pages  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Balfour ;  and  for  the 
republication  of  her  articles,  no  one  who  reads  them  will  require  an  apology. 
The  designs  for  the  engravings  are  original;  and  the  Publishers  trust  that 
in  the  present  volume  they  have  made  their  best  acknowledgment  for  the 
favour  with  which  its  predecessors  have  been  received.  The  whole,  they 
believe,  will  be  found  no  inapt  memento  of  those  to  whom  St.  Peter  refers 
the  sex  for  an  ensample :  "  the  holy  women,  in  the  old  time." 


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